Running On Empty
by chemm80
Summary: Dean works as a roadie for a rock band one summer. Stanford Era
1. Chapter 1

Running on Empty

Chapter 1

"_I've taken myself to the edges of life my way, and I'm still here. Whether or not I deserve to be is another story." _- Slash (Guns 'n'Roses)

"Hey, Mikey, runnin' low on beer here."

Michael Roper gets up from the table, shrugging off his irritation at the shortening of his name. He doesn't mind so much when his brother Joe calls him Mikey, but it rubs him the wrong way when Slam does it.

He starts to make his way across the barroom, sighing. The roadies are like a family though, good and bad, and Michael's smart enough to know that showing the nickname bothers him is the surest way to make the problem a hundred times worse.

So right now he's headed to the bar to fetch the road crew another round, which he always volunteers to do even though it makes him feel like a dog retrieving a stick. Because, again…not stupid here. He thinks most of the guys like him all right, but Joe's position as crew chief is the only reason he's on the road with an awesome band like Night Shayde, instead of being stuck back in Kerrville working at The QuikWay, nothing to look forward to but getting high on the weekends.

Michael puts in his order and leans on the bar to wait. There's a wide-shouldered guy in a black t-shirt sitting on a barstool next to him. Michael wants to ask him about the weird-looking gold amulet hanging on a cord around his neck, but he's holding a phone to one ear and plugging the other against the noise with a finger, green eyes scanning the room as he listens. He doesn't look too happy about whatever he's hearing. The bartender brings Michael the beer just as the guy hangs up.

"Bad news?" Michael asks. He tries to make conversation for a minute or two, just being friendly, but the guy doesn't seem to want to talk. In fact, he's kind of a dick about the whole thing. Michael shrugs it off and heads back to their table, thinking about the night before.

Michael figures he's going to be remembering last night, and Sherri, for quite a while. Despite what everybody thinks about the rock and roll life—hell, what _he'd_ thought when he got into the business—it's not all one long orgy. Well, maybe if you're actually in the band, but for the road crew, not so much.

Sherri is the prettiest girl Michael's ever been with (even though she was only the second one, after Sandy Vick on prom night), but he doubts he'll ever see her again. They're leaving town right after the gig tomorrow evening. And maybe that's just as well, because Michael is a little scared of Sherri's big brother, Neal.

Michael's pretty sure Neal's kind of a dick, too.

**

Council Bluffs, Iowa is a short distance east of Omaha and it's not exactly a major city, but you'd think at least Omaha would be big enough for somebody to stock a Powerglide for a '67 Impala. Apparently that would be way too easy, because Dean's called every auto parts store, body shop and salvage yard in a hundred-mile radius and his last hope just hung up on him.

Dean closes his phone in his fist and knocks it against his forehead like he can pound away the headache that's starting up there. _Fuck, why is he even bothering?_ It's not like he has a thousand bucks to pay for the goddamned transmission anyway. He can't exactly conjure up a new credit card on a few days' notice. He really only came into this place hoping to pick up some cash, but the bar's a bust and he's just wound up spending more of what he can't afford to lose.

Dean sighs and massages his forehead with his fingertips. He's really not sure how he got in shit this deep this quick. It's not like he hasn't been on his own before, but everything seems to cost a lot more than he expects. And of course, this little road trip wasn't exactly a model of forethought and planning.

Sam had been gone for three weeks—three weeks of Dad working the two of them into the ground every minute he could wrangle it. He mostly drank during the little down time that was left and Dean was doing it with him more often than not. He didn't like leaving his dad alone for too long, especially at first.

But the silence began to wear on Dean after a while. John had ever been much on talking about anything other than the stuff he could see right in front of him; he wasn't about to change now. And hell, it wasn't like Dean didn't get it. It was hard enough to even breathe, the air all seemingly sucked into the black hole left behind when a third of their substance suddenly evaporated. It was the only thing that mattered and the last thing either of them wanted to talk about, and what good would it do anyway? Sam was gone and he wasn't coming back.

The thing was, it wasn't a complete surprise. Dean had known Sam was leaving because Sam had told him. He's still not sure whether that had been Sam's original intention, or if it was entirely the fault of the bottle of tequila Dean had liberated from the QuikWay and pressed into service as Sam's high school graduation gift. Dean would like to think it was the former, but either way, he'd known.

He just thought he'd have more time to say goodbye.

"You walk out that door…don't bother coming back," John had said.

It was the last thing Dean was expecting to come out of his father's mouth—the last thing he _should_ have said—because goddamnit, didn't the man know Sam at all? Dean was completely speechless, helpless in the stretching moment between the fall of the words and the wreckage of impact.

Sam had been pretty fucking far from speechless, though, and Dean hasn't even begun to wrap his mind around how he's going to glue all these tiny broken pieces back together into anything resembling a family.

So yeah, there was a screaming scene when Sam left. But when Dean walked out three weeks later with nothing but the clothes on his back and the crap in the Impala's trunk, there wasn't even a whimper. It was like Sam had yanked the linchpin that locked Dean and his father together when he left, and after that Dean just drifted further and further down the tracks, helpless to close the gap.

Dean watched John from the darkened doorway. He was pretty sure his dad didn't even know he was there. Dad was slumped sideways against the kitchen table, eyes glassy and bloodshot from too much Jack and too little sleep. Dean looked at him sitting there and he didn't know him, and something inside Dean just gave way in that moment, silently and too easily, like it had been dissolving slowly, eaten away by the corrosive passage of the long days spent remembering how things used to be, stupidly wishing they could change the past, as though their whole lives hadn't been a lesson in the futility of that dream.

So in the end, they still didn't talk. Dean just slipped silently out the door. Dean's not sure when John realized he was actually gone, but by the time he called three days later, Dean was already crossing the Nebraska state line.

"_Where are you?" John demanded, voice rough like he just woke up. Or never went to bed. _

_Dean squeezed his eyes shut briefly, swallowed past the raw feeling in his throat. _

"_Not there," he managed. He half-expected his father to call him a smart-ass for that, but he wasn't being insubordinate. More like stating a desire, really. _

_John was quiet so long that Dean began to think he'd lost the connection._

"_Maybe it's just as well," John said finally. His phone started to cut out for real then. Dean heard him say "…call…" before it died completely. He still doesn't know which of the two of them John meant the word for._

"Bad news?" a voice asks, and Dean swivels his head to find a scrawny kid at his elbow, long, bony fingers looped around the curves of six opened longnecks. Dean gives him an intimidating look designed to send him packing as quickly as possible, but the guy just grins sympathetically, oblivious to the warning.

"Sorry, man, I don't mean to pry, but…that phone call. You look like your dog died or something," he continues, surprising a short laugh out of Dean. Because it's not like he's ever actually owned a dog, but he was feeling kind of gut-punched, so he guesses it's close enough.

The laugh apparently just encourages the kid, because he nods his head at Dean in lieu of a handshake and says, "Michael Roper."

Dean takes a closer look. The guy is slightly built, probably in his late teens, and even with the ragged scruff he's sporting, Dean can't imagine how he passed for old enough to get into the bar in the first place. Dean's not sure what the kid expects from him, but he's already trying to figure a way to extricate himself from this awkward little…whatever. He really needs to take care of his business.

"Okay, well Mike…"

"It's Michael."

"Whatever. Listen, Mike, I'm flattered, but I really don't swing that way, and I have things to do so you should really…"

It's nearly a given that when a stranger of either gender speaks to Dean first, they're hitting on him, especially in a bar, so he figures he's got an excuse for the assumption, but the kid just throws his head back and laughs out loud. And yeah, that much innocence really shouldn't be allowed out in public without a minder of some sort.

"Dude, I'm not…" Michael starts, blushing. The kid is actually red enough Dean can see the blush under his half-assed attempt at a beard. Unbelievable. "It's not like that, really. I'm not from here. Just trying to be friendly, is all."

"Barking up the wrong tree for that, too," Dean says.

"No problem, man. I'll leave you alone with your dead dog problems, or whatever," Michael says, as he moves away. "Nice to meet you, anyway," he says, nodding again and trotting off to a noisy table in the back.

Dean briefly wonders what part of the whole conversation was "nice," but his mind soon returns to more pressing matters. Like how the hell he's going to survive for the next few days and weeks.

No miracle fix shows itself as Dean nurses one beer after the other as slowly as he can. When last call comes, he's no closer to an answer than he was when he came in. He's bone-tired from too much driving and not enough sleeping, most of the latter in the car too. He gets up and pays his tab, noting the remaining cash in his wallet as he does. He figures it'll just about cover morning coffee and a crappy breakfast and that's it. Bedding down in the Impala might become a regular gig. He scratches his head, finally decides to try to get some sleep and figure things out tomorrow.

Dean reaches the door ahead of the last few stragglers and pushes through it into the darkened parking lot. His first impression as his eyes adjust is that there are a lot more people outside than in, but it doesn't occur to him that it's a problem for him until he nears his car. A tingle runs through him when he's a few yards away, his body having reacted before his brain processes what it all means: a small clot of men standing too close to his baby, hard edge to the voices and aggressive tension pouring off them in waves.

Someone's about to get his ass kicked.

Dean's never been less interested in getting involved. He's got way bigger things to worry about than some stupid townie pissing contest. If they'd just get the fuck away from his car…

But the bozos seem fully occupied with their little beef anyway, mostly sounds like _you took it _and _I don't have it_ back and forth, and Dean figures drunken stupidity of this magnitude might take a while to exhaust itself, so he starts looking for a way around it. He thinks there's enough space between the nearest guy and the driver's door for him to ease between and slide in.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Dean mutters, and makes his move.

They don't appear to notice Dean at all and he's got his hand on the door handle, figuring he's got this made when the biggest guy pushes the one closest to Dean. He staggers back into Dean, knocking him against the Impala. Dean growls a curse and shoves back. The guy isn't big and maybe Dean put a little more strength behind it than he meant to, but he's tired and pissed and defending his baby, and that's just how it goes.

Or actually, it goes like this: The guy Dean pushed bounces back onto the apparent ringleader of the little herd, a muscle-run-to-fat guy covered with biker tattoos, who punches him square in the face. Dean steps out of the way and the smaller man hits the gravel of the parking lot with a rattle and a crunch. The biker turns a glare on Dean that makes it obvious he's going to have to fight his way out of this. Dean takes a quick head count and he's not sure how many of them it would take to kick his ass, but it looks like they're planning to try it with four.

Scrawny Dude is back on his feet by this time, but he isn't much of a fighter, shockingly, and Dean doesn't have any attention to spare him anyway, just picks out the biggest mouth-breather and swings with everything he's got. It barely fazes him and he advances on Dean with a grin, blood dripping down his chin. Another one grabs Dean around the shoulders from behind and Dean curls his arms and lifts his lower body, kicks the big man in the chest with both feet, knocking him on his ass. The guy holding Dean reacts quickly, using Dean's momentum to slam him headfirst into a pickup truck.

Dean's ears are roaring, but he manages to tuck his legs under him and roll away, getting to his feet in time to meet another punch. He stays up and swings another time or two, trying to get the Impala's body or anything solid behind him, but it's too late. Something slams into the back of his head and the lights go out.

**

Dean returns to consciousness like swimming, like he's rising slowly through deep water; he can even see the sun shining down through it from above. The bright light ignites a searing pain inside his skull, making him squint hard and try to turn his face away.

He's clued in to the fact that he's in a hospital now, the smells and sounds of an emergency room unfortunately well within his experience. He opens his eyes to a tiny flashlight shining square into his pupil and lasering straight on into his brain.

"Hey, I saw that, no hiding anymore, I know you're awake," a woman says. "Mr. Winchester…Dean…wake up. Need you to talk to me."

He cracks his eyes open just a slit then, wary of the light, but it doesn't come back. The doctor smiles down at him and he thinks she'd be kind of attractive if she'd just hold still, stop blurring at the edges, morphing from two bodies to one and then back again.

_Okay then… today's menu special: concussion. _

He's lying on a gurney, needle in the back of his left hand the only problem he can actually visualize, and he starts a physical inventory from the feet up, gingerly moving each body part to see how bad off he is.

"…rib fracture," the doctor is saying, just as Dean shifts and that condition becomes so painfully evident that he instantly stops breathing. A cold sweat breaks out across his forehead. Moving is completely out of the question.

"It's not displaced or I'd be worried about a punctured lung…lucky," she's apparently still speaking and Dean gives his head a little rolling shake on the pillow, trying to clear his vision, shake off the ringing in his ears, something.

That genius maneuver causes his abused brain to slosh around inside his skull some more, which generates an epic wave of nausea.

_No, no, no…fuck, Dean, broken rib…don't vomit_, he orders his stomach uselessly.

Everything hurts and he's not thinking straight, of course he isn't, but he suddenly knows one thing for sure: he's going to puke _right the fuck now _and he instinctively turns his body to reroute the now-inevitable vomit onto the floor.

"Whoa, hey…you need to stay still, don't…Jesus H. Christ!"

Dean screams, realizing too late he rolled the wrong direction, right onto his busted rib. There's more cursing from the doctor and a lot of activity around him, but he barely hears it over his own loud groaning. He's curled around himself, a giant ball of fiery pain, still puking while trying not to take a deep breath, wrapping his arms tight around his chest when that proves impossible.

He finally purges everything he's got and mostly controls the follow-up heaves by force of will, alternately swallowing hard and spitting out what he can't choke back. Tears are streaming down his face and Dean can't give a fuck, just concentrates on breathing as shallowly as possible, beyond caring that it sounds like sobbing.

Someone's reaching over him from behind, pawing at the hand with the IV, but he can't let go of his ribs for fear he'll explode with the force of the pain, that pieces of him will start fucking flying off in all directions.

"Here, hey…hey…this'll help. Compazine and morphine for the pain and nausea," a female voice says soothingly.

_Better late than never,_ he thinks, right before he passes out.

**

Light stabbing into his eye sockets wakes Dean a second time and he twists his head away from the source of the torture, but the motion just makes it throb like a motherfucker. He waits a second before opening his eyes a crack and peering around the room. He shifts his body carefully against the raised head of the hospital bed. The injured rib flares a warning, but nothing else seems to be damaged. The doc was right; he was lucky.

Dean rethinks that assessment when a movement near the door catches his attention and he jerks his head toward it, setting up waves of dizziness and aggravating his headache again. His vision is still blurring on and off, but he recognizes the person walking toward his bed. It's what's-his-name, from the bar. Matthew?

"Hey, you're awake. Dean, right? Remember me? I'm Michael."

_Christ, _the kid is like a damned puppy or something. Push him away, and before you know it he's right back in your lap.

"Dude, if you lick my face right now, I'll kill you, swear to God," Dean says, or tries to. His mouth is so dry he half expects a dust cloud to fly out of it when he talks. His bottom lip is swollen and sore and his tongue is bitten nearly through on one side, so he's really got no idea how intelligible his speech actually is.

Michael either doesn't understand him or wasn't listening in the first place, because he just keeps talking.

"Man, I'm glad you're okay. I was worried when you were out for so long. Some fight, huh? You were awesome, by the way, and your car…_dude_. I think there's something going on with the transmission though; it was shifting pretty rough. It's a '67, right? I got my eye on this sweet '67 Mustang, man…"

He talks in one continuous stream and Dean's not really following, but he catches one word just fine.

"My car? Where is she?" Dean grunts out, every breath catching sharp under his right arm.

"Oh, yeah, I took care of it. It's outside, safe and sound. Sweet ride, man…"

Dean's eyes open fully for the first time that day. He tries to speak and winds up coughing instead, which is another delightful voyage to the outer limits of his pain tolerance. When he finally manages to get words out, he does his best to sound threatening.

"You _drove my car_?"

"Um, yeah? I followed the ambulance here. Called the cops, too," Michael mumbles, finally seeming like he's paying attention to Dean, so some inkling of the murder Dean's contemplating must have gotten through to the kid, which pleases Dean. That shit is tricky with your ass hanging out of a hospital gown.

Then the word "cops" soaks in.

"That's it," Dean mutters.

He fumbles for the back of his left hand, pulls off the tape and slides the IV tubing out. The trickle of blood is negligible, so he ignores it in favor of working the bed rail down. The mechanism is a lot more difficult to figure out than it should be, so it's not that Dean doesn't recognize the fact that Michael's freaking out—it's more that he doesn't really have any attention to spare for it.

"Whoa, what the _fuck…_shit, don't pull on that…leave that alone, no, no, no…you can't get up, man. Doc says you need to stay a few days, for observation or whatever."

"Fuck that, and what's it to you anyway? Why are you even here…Mike, is it?" Dean asks between soft grunts, as he finally gets the cranky railing down and levers his way upright.

"It's Michael. And you helped me, so…I'm just, you know…helping you," he trails off.

"Well, _Michael_…if you really wanna help me, go find my clothes," Dean says, clutching at the edge of the mattress for balance and fighting off several successive waves of dizziness.

Michael looks at him doubtfully, but then starts opening cabinets and sliding back drawers until he finds a plastic bag containing what Dean had on him when they brought him in, or most of it. He didn't have much money anyway, but what little there was is still there, including his driver's license and the one credit card. The only thing missing is his good knife—which pisses him off royally because Sam gave it to him, goddammit—but Dean learned early that getting attached to possessions, to things, is a waste of energy, so overall he figures it could have been a whole lot worse.

Dean starts getting dressed carefully, fending Michael off when he tries to help and barking an order to "just watch the fucking door." There's a fair amount of cussing and shallow panting involved, but Dean finally gets himself together, or at least feeling reasonably competent again with his pants and boots on.

"Dean, I don't think this is a good idea. I mean, you're all busted up and you should probably stay, or…something," Michael says, eyes darting nervously.

"You're absolutely right, Mike, this is a really fucking terrible idea, but this luxury suite costs about a thousand bucks a minute and that's money I don't have," Dean says.

He's pretty sure they haven't run his credit card yet, with him being unconscious—hospital's are sticklers for that consent shit—but they'll get around to it soon enough. Besides, he can't leave the car and the weaponry in the trunk to chance, and especially not unsupervised with the village idiot, here.

He makes Michael check the hallway before he sticks his head out. Dean's lucky they're only a couple of doors from the exit stairwell, because he's still walking like he's drunk and when he steps off the landing onto the first stair, he's sure he's never been this glad to see a handrail before.

The parking lot isn't too large and the Impala stands out, calling him in like a homing beacon. Dean only stumbles once on his way. He braces one hand against her shining, black side and holds the other palm out in Michael's direction, mouth tight.

"What…you can't drive, man, seriously. You got hit pretty hard,"

"Give me my fucking keys or I will punch you in your face," Dean grits.

Michael still looks dubious, but he hands them over. Dean jabs the key into the door lock a little more forcefully than he should, but he climbs into his seat carefully, trying not to jar his rib or bend over too far and intensify the beating of the drums in his head. He's still catching his breath when there's a noise at the passenger window, followed by that door opening.

Dean's head snaps to the right and he comes face to face with Michael as he slides into the shotgun seat. If his head hadn't already been hurting so much, Dean would swear he was popping an aneurysm.

"You left my car _unlocked?_" Dean asks, squinting against the spikes of bright sunlight from over Michael's shoulder.

"Um, just this door," Michael mumbles, looking down at the floorboard.

"Get the fuck out," Dean rasps, trying to slow his breathing so it won't hurt any more than it already does. The nausea's starting to come back and the last thing he needs is to get the pain/puke cycle rolling again. If he wasn't fighting his own body so hard, he might even feel bad about the hurt on the kid's face. On the other hand, the little moron had the nerve to not only drive the Impala, but to leave her unlocked, so…no.

Michael's saying something, but Dean's ears are ringing and he can't make much sense of it. Not that he has any interest in the little shit's opinion. Of course, he did make sure Dean got to a hospital and didn't bleed out in the parking lot. Not that that would have been a problem in the first place if he hadn't run into…

"Enough!" Dean growls. He's not used to all this waffling; it's making him dizzy. Or maybe he's just dizzy, but whatever. "What. The fuck. Do you want?"

"Can you give me a ride back to the venue?"

**

Dean's always said he could drive as long as he was conscious, and this isn't the worst off he's ever been, for sure, but the trip across town is still an endurance test. The kid yammers the whole way, but Dean can mostly tune it out. He had years of practice on the road with Sammy after all.

When they started the trip, Dean wouldn't have bet a dime on Michael actually knowing where they were going, but they pull up to the Mid-America Center after only one wrong turn.

"So really, Dean, what do you think?" Michael says, blinking at him.

Dean completely lost the thread of what the guy was saying about thirty seconds into the drive. The blow to his head hasn't done his short-term memory any favors even if he was interested, and the kid spouts bullshit as easy as breathing.

"I say it's time for you to go," Dean says. Any other time he'd reach over and pop the passenger door handle as in invitation to evacuation, but the driving has aggravated his rib, which is warning him with a hot, sickening throb not to even try anything that wildly athletic.

"Look, you said you need money and this is a really good gig. Night Shayde is on the rise, man. Plus, Joe had to give Travis an FOH pass last week and he's been complaining about the extra work ever since."

Dean frowns at him for a while, trying to recall the rest of what _this person who won't fucking leave him alone _has been saying for the past twenty minutes, then waiting for his bruised brain to catch up.

"Are you offering me a job as a roadie?" Dean asks, finally. "What the hell is an FOH pass?"

"FOH—Fuck Off Home. It's like…well…it's roadie talk for 'useless.' And fired, basically," Michael says. "But yeah, the pay is decent and you get per diem. And free beer, usually…that's in the rider and…"

"Forget it," Dean says, shaking his head slightly. He's feeling physically worse by the minute and he just needs to get rid of this leech so he can deal with everything, but it does occur to him that he's been maybe a little more of a dick about this than he has to be. Besides, kicking this puppy hasn't done the job; maybe the soft brush-off will work better.

"Look, Mike, I appreciate the help and the offer and everything, but I don't think it's for me. I've got things to do and places to be, okay?"

He gives a disappointed nod, finally opening the door to get out.

"I understand. But if you change your mind, we'll be in town until tomorrow night."

Dean raises his hand—let the pain in the ass take it as a wave goodbye or a fuck-you or however he wants—just as long as he leaves. Dean waits for the creak of the door, eyes closed, concentrating on not breathing any more than he has to, steeled against the band of stretching pain in his ribcage. Michael gets out, but then Dean feels him lean down to peer into the car one last time.

_Jesus Christ._

"Hey, Dean?"

Dean turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"It's Michael."

**

Dean drives pretty aimlessly for a few minutes, his only mission to get further away from the arena and Michael, but he's got to find someplace to stop before much longer. It's getting dark and he really doesn't know this town well anyway. Fighting the pain and blurred vision, trying to keep it together enough to drive, is wearing him out.

He finally passes a park and it looks like an okay neighborhood which is good, because the way his luck's been running, Dean's pretty sure if he got mugged right now, the son of a bitch wouldn't even have the decency to put him out of his misery. He pulls over and gets out carefully, walks as steady as he can to the Impala's trunk. It's an effort of will just to stay on course. His head feels swollen with pain, the kind of throbbing pressure that makes him think having his brain start to leak out of his ears would be a huge relief. His busted rib is doing its best to keep up, heat slicing across his side every time he moves. He's dizzy and starting to feel nauseated again, too.

And he's thirsty, he realizes suddenly. It's warm enough that he's probably dehydrated. Dean opens the trunk and a cool breeze ruffles his damp shirt, making him shiver. He stands there staring blankly at the trunk's contents for long minutes. He really has no idea why he came back here.

Another slight gust of wind kicks by him and it must stir something up, because it tickles his nose and he tries to suppress the sneeze, but…_oh Jesus fucking Christ _that _hurts_…especially the follow-up heave, and he swallows back bile. At least now he remembers what he wanted from the trunk: painkillers.

He paws through the mess, winds up even hotter and sweatier than before, laboring to breathe, by the time he digs out the med kit. There are maybe twenty Vicodin and he wants those right now—all of them at once would be good, actually—but he's still got enough sense to think maybe they aren't the best idea until he gets the head injury a little further behind him. It's not like there's someone to wake him up if he goes under too far. It might be a near thing, but he doesn't think he's quite ready to die. He opts for half a handful of ibuprofen.

There's a functioning water faucet not too far from where he's parked. The water is warm and has a harsh metallic taste, but Dean swallows the pills and drinks until his stomach clenches. He staggers back to the car.

The back seat looks like heaven right now, he's so fucking tired, and he eases himself down onto his good side. He stays there for about a second and a half before it becomes crystal clear that he's not going to be doing much lying flat until he has time to heal a little. He hauls himself upright again and goes back to spelunk the trunk again, coming back with a couple of blankets of dubious origin and sanitary condition, and his extra jacket.

It's going to be a long night.

**

Dean does manage to sleep a little, wedged into the corner of the seat and the door with his jacket for padding behind him, but it's not even in the same universe as comfortable. He wakes for the twentieth time just after sunrise, sweaty, stiff and disoriented. He carefully works his way back to a full sitting position and it doesn't take long for the realization to hit that he's still in the same shitty situation as yesterday. So much for things looking better in the morning.

He's thirsty again, and that's something he can change, so he pries himself out of the car. The more minor insults from the fight are starting to make nuisances of themselves—stiff left knee, sore right shoulder—and he trudges to the water tap moving like he's eighty.

He washes down some more ibuprofen with a few mouthfuls of water and it does make him feel better, or at least like he might survive the trip to the convenience store across the street. He buys himself some coffee and some sort of sandwich. He's never liked to eat alone and it's a sorry excuse for breakfast, but he's not hungry anyway, just figures he needs it. It doesn't taste like much but he watched the clerk make it, so it likely won't poison him and his stomach doesn't try too hard to reject it.

It only takes him a couple of minutes to finish and then he can't put off figuring out what to do any longer. The car won't make it very far in this condition and he's got nowhere to go, but Dean starts driving anyway. He always thinks better behind the wheel.

He's clearly not in any shape to get hold of the money to fix the car, or even enough to live on. He might still be able to run a game of pool with his rib like it is, even though it's on his right side. Poker would be easier on him, but finding a good game when you don't know anybody is iffy, at best. He's just going to have to face the facts.

Less than a week on his own and he's all busted up and flat broke, and so is the Impala. Great job, Dean. You worried about taking care of Sammy all those years and now you can't even take care of yourself.

His thoughts keep circling back to the same conclusion and eventually it cuts through the fog in his skull that he's getting nowhere. He can't keep driving around like this, either, because he's going to run out of gas and the only thing likely to help his concentration at this point is recovery from the concussion. That's going to take time he doesn't really have. He pulls over next to a curb in what passes for the downtown area of Council Bluffs and gets out, leans one hip against the car and stares blankly at the activity in the street at his side.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, when Dean thought about _after—_after he was grown, after Sam was out of school—he'd always thought they'd go on hunting together, only better, because they didn't have to worry about what Sammy was missing anymore, finally all three of them working together, a team. Dean snorts softly. Too good to be true.

And now he's really fucked, which is a lot closer to business as usual in his world than his stupid little dream ever will be. He's skirted around the reality, denied and waffled, but he's not only going to have to call his dad for money, he's going to have to beg for money in order to go crawling back. How's that for whipped?

Dean gets his phone out and rests his thumb on the "send" button, takes a deep, painful breath to steady himself. As he hesitates, he looks at the building across from him again. Then it hits him, why it looks so familiar. He puts his phone back in his pocket.

The lighted marquee is flashing a repeating message:

MID AMERICA CENTER and KIWR Radio Present NIGHT SHAYDE in Concert!!!!


	2. Chapter 2

Running on Empty

Chapter 2 (word count 9,350)

"Another town I've left behind

_Another drink completely blind_

_Another hotel I can't find_

_Another backstage pass for you_

_Another tube of superglue…" _

_- _We are the Road Crew - Lemmy Klimester (Motorhead)

Dean's never been to what he'd call a real job interview before, but he's pretty sure this one is a little unorthodox. They're crossing the arena floor, which is littered with amps, speakers, struts, cases, and cables, with more of the same being dumped by steady process wherever there's a square of open space. Four or five guys are crawling over the wreckage, calling to each other and occasionally cursing, rolling cases in, stacking amps to one side, taping cable into obscure patterns. It looks like chaos, but Dean can see there's a stage somehow gradually taking shape at one end of the oval surface.

Michael explains that his brother is currently engaged in "flying the PA," and drags Dean over, grinning and as excited as a five-year-old as he threads his way through the maze of equipment. He's practically bouncing, all but tugging at Dean's shirt, and it's weird and kind of embarrassing, but it does make Dean feel less like he's crawling in to beg for something here.

Michael leads him toward a lanky guy standing toward the front of the stage area. He's probably somewhere around thirty years old, with longish blond hair that is already starting to thin. He's wearing a black t-shirt with white lettering that informs Dean that his "give-a-shitter is broken."

A big man with a bushy white beard is bent over a line of four-foot speakers across from him. It looks like they're trying to hook together a chain of about a dozen, wrestling and pushing on the big black boxes.

"This is my brother Joe, and the ugly one there is Bear," Michael says to Dean as they approach.

Neither looks in their direction, but Bear answers Michael with a raised middle finger as he straightens up and kicks at a speaker, shoving it back into line before going back to tightening connectors.

"Guys, this is Dean…remember, I told you about him, from the bar the other night?" Michael says. Both Roper and Bear raise their heads at that and turn to look at Dean.

"So, I hear I owe you one, Dean," Roper says, stepping around the block of equipment.

"It was just a right place, right time deal, Mr. Roper," Dean says.

Roper raises his eyebrows like he doubts that assessment.

"Call me Joe. I guess everybody came out of it alive, at least. One of these days when I've got more time I'm going to find out the real story," Joe says, cutting a glance at Michael, who avoids his eyes. Joe sighs and looks back at Dean.

"You say I don't owe you, but maybe there's something I can do for you anyway?" Joe says.

Dean hesitates before answering. He's not very good at asking for anything at the best of times, and he might be impaired right now, what with the concussion and all. Probably is, if he's even entertaining this. He almost tells the guy to forget it right there, but then he thinks about the disabled Impala and grits his teeth.

"Your brother said you might need some help and I…need the work."

Roper sighs, nodding thoughtfully.

"We do. We're behind schedule today—and on every other gig for the rest of the tour, if I don't get some warm bodies in here ASAP. I don't guess you have any experience?"

Dean just shakes his head.

"Well, like I said: warm bodies. A lot of the shit we do just requires a strong back and a thick skull," Roper says, smirking.

Dean smiles ruefully. "Guess I've got what it takes then."

"Good enough," Joe replies, smiling a little bigger. "Seriously, man, it ain't rocket science. If it's on the truck it goes in the arena; if it's in the arena it goes on the truck."

"This is the 'load in,'" Michael says. "We'll 'load out' right after the show and head to…wherever we're playing next. Michigan, I think?" He looks at Joe for confirmation.

Joe shrugs. He's looking at the string of PA boxes again, fiddling with the hoist control in his hands. Bear gives him a thumbs-up and Joe pushes a button. The caterpillar-like assembly begins to rise slowly toward the ceiling.

"One gig at a time, Mikey. Speaking of, why aren't you working? You got sound check in two hours. Get your lazy ass in gear," Joe says, turning back to Michael with a stern look. He gives him a slight shove to the shoulder.

"Sure, boss," Michael grins, giving Dean a nod and trotting off.

The older Roper brother turns to Dean with an appraising look. Dean's still fighting the urge to just tell him to forget it, but he forces himself to meet the steady gaze. He knows what he looks like—he stopped by the restroom on the way in and cleaned up a little and the face in the mirror was basically unmarked, just a swollen lip to show for the beating he took. Maybe whaling on the back of his head took too much energy for them to bother with his face.

That, and kicking him in the ribs, he figures, although he doesn't remember that part at all. A broken rib buys you at least a month of pure misery, Dean knows from experience.

_That son of a bitch better hope I never see him again_, Dean thinks darkly_. _

Joe interrupts Dean's revenge fantasies.

"Look, you could be a serial killer for all I know, but if we keep running behind like this, getting knifed in my sleep will be a pure mercy killing. Besides, my brother likes you. Of course, if Mikey was a better judge of character, my life would be a whole lot easier," Joe adds, huffing a laugh.

"I'm not trying to trade on what happened at the bar the other night. I'll pull my own weight," Dean says.

"Yeah? And how are you going to do that with a broken rib?" he asks.

Dean narrows his eyes slightly.

"I'm fine."

Joe doesn't say a word, just steps forward suddenly and feints a jab in the direction of Dean's right side. Dean's too well trained to actually flinch; he just sidesteps smoothly and turns slightly away from the movement. Roper smirks, nodding.

"That's what I thought. Don't sweat it. Plenty of time for you to show me how tough you are later, when that rib heals a little."

There's a booming crash from behind Joe. The noise sends a spike of pain through Dean's temple and he can't suppress a wince. Joe whirls on the offender.

"Jesus Christ, Jake! That amp is worth a hell of a lot more than your sorry hide!" he shouts, then turns back to Dean and sighs. "I've got to go before they destroy more than _I'm_ worth and get my ass fired. Mikey will show you around and we'll put you to work after the show tonight, all right?"

Dean tilts his head in assent and extends his right hand. Joe shakes it quickly and he's gone, leaving Dean to wonder what the hell he's gotten himself into. Apparently he's managed to become a roadie. For a bunch of jokers calling themselves Night Shayde, no less.

But there's something he's got to take care of first.

**

Leaving his girl behind in a little metal box of a storage locker sucks. Dean lays his hand on the Impala's roof like a promise, gives her a last look before he locks the door behind him. _Be back as soon as I can, baby. _

Michael followed him over and he drives them back to the arena in one of the utility trucks. Dean's starting to wonder if he should have just walked—he's not sure the ride is worth being a captive audience for the kid's chronic case of motor-mouth—but he writes it off under the heading of "no such thing as too much information."

"This is a pretty big venue, I guess, but Night Shayde is going to get a lot bigger, you wait and see," Michael says, glancing at Dean.

The truck's stiff, heavy-riding suspension isn't exactly doing Dean's injuries any favors and he's getting a little queasy as they bump and weave through the light mid afternoon traffic. But Dean feels like the kid's expecting some sort of answer from him and anything is better than puking right now, so he figures talking is as good a way as any to take his mind off his physical troubles.

"Never heard of 'em before yesterday," Dean allows, and gets the reaction he expects, considering what he's already seen of Michael: stunned disbelief.

"You gotta be shittin' me, man! 'You Know You're Right'?"

Dean frowns for a second, confused. His vision has pretty much cleared up, but maybe he's still not over that crack to the back of the head…

"Right about what?"

"No…I mean Night Shayde's hit song? Dude," Michael says, shaking his head. "It's all over the radio. Did you just crawl out from under a rock or something?"

Dean breathes a short laugh through his nose.

"I'm more into classic rock, you know…Metallica, Zeppelin."

"Oh, sweet. That's cool. Night Shayde is a grunge band…well, more post-grunge, really. Think Nirvana meets Black Sabbath."

"Sabbath, I know."

"Fuckin' Ozzy, right? Did you hear about that one time he snorted up a line of ants? The dude is _unbelievable_…"

Michael babbles for the rest of the ride, seeming satisfied with Dean's monosyllabic answers and Dean just guts it out, bracing himself against the truck's motion with an elbow on the window ledge. He realizes he's gripping the curve of the door handle too hard when his fingers start to ache and he wonders why he's holding on so tight. It's not like he's going anywhere.

**

No one seems too upset when Dean and Michael stroll back into the arena fifteen minutes late for sound check. Dean's still got nothing to do but watch and that gives him too much time to think. He tries to focus on the set up for the show and he's got to admit he's really pretty impressed at the changes in the place since they left, the stage set full of instruments and equipment, order pulled out of chaos in the few hours they've been away.

Meanwhile, Dean's not anxious to fuck this up before he gets started, but he's got no idea what his job even is, and he's getting a little antsy wondering how he's supposed to figure it out. There's really no one to ask, because the floor is pretty much deserted at this point except for the guy at the sound board and Michael. Michael has been up on the stage tinkering with the various band instruments for the last several minutes, tightening the drum heads, tuning the guitars. Apparently he's the drum tech, the guitar tech and the bass tech all in one. It sounds to Dean like a lot of responsibility for one scrawny kid, but whatever.

Dean's running on fumes, himself. He knows how to handle pain but hours of dealing still take their toll, and he's hitting the wall from the poor night's sleep. He walks up a few steps and eases himself down into one of the stadium seats to wait for the pain medication to kick in. His headache has subsided to a dull discomfort at the base of his neck, but his rib is aching like a son of a bitch. He leans back and closes his eyes, letting the odd burps of sound from the stage flow past him.

A burst of real music suddenly pours from the amps and Dean's eyes fly open. Michael is standing on stage with a guitar strapped across his skinny shoulders. He keeps his eyes down, totally absorbed in what he's doing, hands moving over the strings sure and smooth, like he's coaxing the guitar to give up its music. He's picking a series of fast Zeppelin riffs, starting with Heartbreaker and ramping up into the rolling boogie of Rock and Roll. Dean watches his fingers fly over the frets, fascinated. The kid's _good._

Dean glances toward the guy at the sound board. It's the bearded man he met earlier, Bear, who turned out to be the sound engineer. Dean watches him fiddle with the controls for a minute or two, twisting a knob here, bumping a slider switch there, and then Bear just sits back and watches Michael play.

Dean leans back, closes his eyes and listens.

**

It's nearly show time and Dean is standing behind the stage watching the crew make last minute adjustments to the setup, while keeping half an eye on the arena as it begins to fill. He notices idly that most of the fans don't look old enough to be out of the house alone, but most of Dean's attention is on Squinty, the lighting tech, who's running around looking for his "pole." Dean doesn't get the reference, other than the way too obvious joke, but the rest of the crew seems to be finding the whole situation to be high entertainment.

Then the house lights go down, the stage lights come up and the opening act takes the stage, some group called Cobra Starship. The guitarist isn't bad, but the singer sort of makes Dean feel like the guy is trying to drill a hole straight through his skull with the sharp nasal tone of his voice. The crowd seems to like them well enough, though.

Michael walks up beside Dean about half an hour in.

"Ready to rock and roll?" he says, grinning.

It's corny as hell, but the kid's lit up with excitement and Dean can't help but grin back.

"I doubt it makes much difference whether I'm ready or not," Dean says dryly.

Michael laughs then, harder than the joke warrants, Dean thinks.

"Stick with me. I'm right next to the stage for the whole show. You can see everything," Michael says, motioning him closer.

Dean takes a second look at Michael's face then and wonders if his eyes don't look a bit on the glassy side. Maybe he's lit on more than just rock and roll. Dean shrugs it off. He's not the guy's keeper.

There's a sort of nest walled off by amps and equipment just to the left of the stage and Michael sets up there. He's got a couple of cases opened beside him and at a glance Dean can see drumsticks, guitar strings and picks, and a lot of tools he doesn't recognize. He watches Michael fidget and pace the small area, fiddling with his tools and bits of hardware for a few minutes. He's just begun to settle a little when the members of Cobra Starship take their bows and jog off the stage.

A short, balding man huffs his way up the steps at the side and walks to the main microphone. Dean recognizes him. Joe introduced him after the sound check as Tony Hudson, the Tour Manager.

"Cobra Starship, ya'll!" he shouts into the mic.

Dean thinks the "ya'll" sounds pretty alien coming out of a guy who looks more like—and probably is—an accountant, but the crowd screams anyway and they keep getting louder as he starts to introduce Night Shayde, so that Dean can barely hear it when he does.

Dean looks out over the seating area. He's been to a couple of concerts when they happened to be in the right place at the right time and he managed to sneak in, but it's a completely different experience from this side of the stage. He can't really see the crowd as individuals, it's too dark, but he knows now why they call it a "sea of faces," because that's how they move, like waves in a big body of water.

And he can _feel_ them. It's eerie, the energy baking out from the seats, and it hits him strangely when the word that comes to mind isn't "crowd" or "fans," but "mob."

Night Shayde takes the stage then and starts to play. It's the first time Dean's actually seen the band since he got here. They're not too out there as far as looks go: some long hair and plenty of beards, piercings and tattoos, but nothing you couldn't see walking down a city street.

By the time they've played a couple of songs, Dean decides that they're pretty decent. They remind him a little of Alice in Chains, a band Dean knows because Sam was into their music for a while. _Sammy would really like these guys_,he thinks.

Dean realizes immediately that he shouldn't have gone there, evoked the image of his brother in connection with what he's hearing, this place. He's been mostly able to ignore the hollow feeling he's been carrying around under his ribs since Sam walked out, but it splits suddenly wider with the shock of memory and he instinctively curls his arm across his middle. The stage area is getting hotter by the minute and Dean swallows around the queasy roll of his stomach that's become all too familiar over the last couple of days.

He's not really listening to the show, but he's vaguely aware that the band has finished the song and the singer is talking to the crowd, pausing occasionally to wait for the swelling cheers to fade away. Dean turns to look at Michael then, just to give himself something solid to focus on.

Dean gets the distraction he was looking for, because he can see even in the faint light that Michael is looking worriedly at something on the stage. Dean glances over at the musicians, but he can't see anything wrong. As he looks away, he catches a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Something large and heavy flies toward them and Dean's hand snakes out, blocking it right before it slams into Michael's face. Dean has his fingers curled around the neck of the guitar before he even registers what it is.

The guitarist follows pretty closely behind the missile, snatching the spare instrument Michael already has in his hand and slinging the strap over his shoulder.

"Learn how to tune a guitar, you fucking moron!" the guy snarls in Michael's face and stomps back into position.

Dean hands the discarded guitar to Michael and he sets it aside without a second glance, like he already knows there's nothing wrong with it. He slumps back onto his seat.

**

By the time the show ends, Michael has swapped the guitar out again, this time for a broken string, adjusted the bass pedal and replaced a drumhead. The crowd is still filing out of the arena when the crew starts tearing down. Dean settles on rolling cases out to the trucks as about the only work he has the training for at this point. His rib complains the whole time, but it's just pain and pain don't hurt.

Fuck. Now he's quoting Roadhouse. His life is a cheesy movie.

The case Dean is pushing is as tall as he is, and apparently lead weights are an essential part of staging a rock show, because _Christ_, the sucker is heavy. He leans into it a little harder and the motion causes the ends of his abused rib to grind together with a sickening, wet crunch. A strangled groan escapes him and he staggers sideways and leans against the wall of the hallway, panting shallowly, leaving the case where it stopped. The procession of roadies diverts at the obstruction like a stream around a sandbar, until a guy Dean doesn't know gives him an odd look and then throws his weight behind the stranded container, pushing it away down the hall.

It should probably hurt his pride, but Dean knows he's done for tonight. Toughing out the pain is one thing, but choking on his own blood from a punctured lung is an experience Dean figures he can live without. So to speak.

Dean straightens up carefully, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead on the back of his forearm. He walks to the parking lot, hiding the shakes that are shivering up and down his legs, threatening to unhinge him at the knees. He takes a seat on a low wall to watch the load-out, in sight of the bus just in case. That way if they decide to leave his useless ass behind, he can grab his stuff before they pull out.

The stream of equipment has slowed to a trickle when Michael finds Dean still sitting at his observation point.

"Hey, man," Michael says as he approaches with a bright grin. "So what did you think of the show? Sweet, right?" he asks, sitting down next to Dean.

"Yeah, sweet. Right up until that fucker launched a Fender at your head," Dean says, throwing him a sideways glance.

"Aw, that's just Rick…it's no big. Musicians are…well creative people get emotional sometimes," Michael shrugs.

Dean grunts. "It's your head, dude, but the guy needs an attitude adjustment if you ask me. And I can get pretty creative in that department, myself."

Michael chuckles. "I know you can, believe me. I've seen you in action remember? But it's okay. I believe in karma, you know? What goes around comes around."

A sudden flood of flashing lights washes across the parking lot, as an ambulance pulls up to one of the buses. Judging from the fancy paint job, Dean figures it belongs to the band.

"Speaking of karma…" Dean mutters, as the subject of their conversation emerges from the door of the bus. If he's moving under his own power, it isn't by much, and he kind of slithers down the steps of the motor coach, with Tony and the lead singer on either side of him. They dump him into the waiting hands of the EMTs and the ambulance carries him off.

"I'll go see what I can find out," Michael says, and trots off.

Dean's still waiting when Joe comes striding out of the arena a few minutes later. He motions Dean over and he goes. His t-shirt says, "Here's some glue—get your shit togther."

"I assume you can drive, the way Mikey's been going on about that car of yours," Joe says, over the noise of shouting and slamming truck doors.

"Sure," Dean says.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Uh, none?" Dean answers uncertainly.

"Good enough," Joe says and starts toward the crew's bus. Joe stops at the door and motions to the driver's seat. "Can you handle this pig?"

Dean's never driven anything remotely this large, but he figures it can't be that hard. It's got an engine; Dean can make it go.

"Yes sir," Dean says, grinning.

"Good. Because you're the only one who hasn't been working his ass off all day. You've got about twenty minutes before we pull out," Joe says, and then he's gone, striding off on some other errand.

It's been a long day, but his vision has cleared up and his head has mostly stopped hurting and Dean can feel a second wind coming on. This is something he's good at. He walks around the big vehicle first, getting a feel for how much space it takes up and estimating the turning radius, which looks to be roughly the length of a city block.

Dean climbs into the driver's seat. He can drive a stick, his dad made sure of that, but there's no need; the transmission's automatic. He scans the dashboard. Nothing he hasn't seen before, except for the video monitor designed for use while backing; that will take some getting used to. The bus is equipped with a really nice GPS, too. Now if Dean just knew where the hell they're supposed to be going.

Dean rifles through the storage compartments. He's about to give up and go look for someone to ask when he finds a slick binder marked "Tour Itinerary" and checks the list of dates.

Looks like Benton Harbor, Michigan is their next stop. Dean enters it into the GPS and it spits out a distance of a little over four hundred miles. It's a pretty long stretch for this late in the day, but nothing he hasn't done before and he's used to driving at night. He checks the RV's refrigerator, snakes an energy drink from the door and he's golden.

**

"_The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side. _

- Unknown

True to Joe's word, the crew is loaded in twenty and Dean has them cruising down I-34 in less than half an hour. Threading through traffic and hitting the on ramps keeps Dean occupied for the first several miles, but they're on the open highway when Joe slings his long body into the seat next to Dean with a heavy sigh.

"Damn, I'm getting too old for this. Get out now, son. This life'll kill you."

Dean chuckles while glancing in his mirror, looking for the little piece of shit car that's been tailgating him since the edge of town.

"I just got into it," Dean says. "And you're what? Thirty?"

"Yeah," Joe nods, then takes a swallow from the longneck in his hand. "But I feel like I'm eighty most days."

"What happened to the dick…I mean Rick? I saw them pour him into the ambulance."

Joe laughs. "No, you had it right the first time. The guy's a total dick. And as for what happened to him, I don't know…crank? Prescription shit? What's the Cocktail of the Week? I can never keep up."

"Sounds like a regular thing."

"He'll be fine," Joe says, shrugging. "That fat bastard Tony would have called me by now if we were going to have to cancel a show."

Dean turns that over for a minute, then says, "So why do you stay in this line of work?"

"Family business, I guess," Joe answers, shrugging. "My old man did it for years, until he keeled over from a heart attack. Right in the middle of a show, too—Skynyrd reunion tour, 1987."

"Wow. And your brother?" Dean says, raising his eyebrows.

"Mikey?" Joe chuckles, shaking his head. "Kid was begging to come on the road with us since he could talk. I made him wait until he finished high school."

Dean watches the white lines scroll by for a minute or two.

"It's none of my business, but how come he's not playing with a band somewhere?"

Joe frowns a little, then understanding dawns and he nods.

"Oh, that's right—you were at sound check this afternoon." Joe pauses, like he's thinking about it.

"A lot of roadies are frustrated musicians, especially band roadies like us," he continues. "Cobain was one for a while, and Billy Powell worked for Skynyrd before he played piano for them. Hell, even Lemmy—he roadied for Hendrix years before Motorhead."

"Didn't know that. But not your brother?" Dean asks, watching Joe out of the corner of his eye.

Joe smiles ruefully.

"Mikey can play, but the music business…it would chew him up and spit him out. That performance at sound check every night—that's his fifteen minutes of fame. All he'll ever get."

Dean drives in silence for a minute or two.

"He seems happy enough," Dean says.

Joe grunts in response.

"My brother's good at two things," Joe says after a bit. "Playing the guitar, and picking out the alpha male in any group and rolling over. The first one's liable to kill him and the second one keeps him alive."

Dean thinks about it for a moment before he answers, and he should probably just keep his mouth shut anyway, but he's never been too good at that. Besides, if he's reading this guy wrong, their relationship is going to be short-lived anyway.

"So which one did you teach him?" Dean asks, glancing at Joe.

His face wavers between irritation and amusement, then relaxes into the latter as he chuckles shortly.

"Just keep us between the white lines, smart ass," he says, getting up and stretching. "I'm going to get some sleep."

**

It's not exactly an easy drive, as worn out as he is, but Dean's inclined to distrust "easy" anyway so he's not much put out by it. He only stops once to fill the RVs tanks and drain his own, and that's enough to keep him awake and going. He squints into the mid-morning sun as he pulls into the parking lot of Lake Michigan College in Benton Harbor. He thinks they've made pretty good time.

Dean kills the engine and stretches carefully, slowly working out some of the stiffness in his side. There's a thump from the back of the RV and Joe comes staggering down the center aisle, fuzzy with sleep.

"Looks like we're still in one piece. Good job," he rasps. He peers blearily out the window, then looks back at Dean. "Where are we?" he asks.

"Benton Harbor?" Dean replies.

Joe frowns.

"Shit, Dean, that's not for three days. What the hell made you think we were supposed to be in Benton Harbor today?"

Dean reaches between the driver's seat and the front console, pulls out the tour itinerary.

"This," Dean answers, thrusting the binder at Joe.

Joe sighs heavily and grinds the heel of his hand into his forehead. He grabs the binder and holds it up by his face, waggling it back and forth.

"Today's lesson…listen up. This _says_ 'tour itinerary.' Every roadie in the fucking world calls it the Book of Lies."

Dean closes his eyes briefly, inhales and puffs the air out. Somebody could have just told him that to start with. On the other hand, he didn't ask. But then he's never really had to ask for marching orders before this.

"Where are we supposed to be right now?" Dean asks.

"Mears, Michigan. "

"I'll get us there."

Joe looks at Dean steadily for a few seconds and Dean meets his gaze, not about to be the first one to look away. Joe nods finally.

"Then I suggest you get this piece of shit back on the road ASAP. Load-in is at noon. I'm going back to sleep."

Dean sinks into the driver's seat and pounds his head into the steering wheel a couple of times before he straightens up and plugs the new destination into the GPS. He's got a hundred and twenty-five miles to go and two hours to do it in. Fucking awesome.

_I hope this tin can is insured, _Dean thinks, as he cranks the ignition. The engine turns over with a deep diesel rumble and they roll out of the parking lot.

**

Dean wakes up hot, sticky and aching. It takes him a minute to recognize his surroundings as a bunk in the crew's RV. The interior of same currently feels like the inside of a pizza oven and smells like dirty socks and old fast food wrappers. Both of which have spent all day inside a pizza oven.

He groans and rolls out of the bunk, trying not to aggravate his rib any more than it already is from lying flat for…Dean checks his watch…about five hours. He maneuvers into the tiny closet of a lavatory and relieves himself, studying his face in the mirror while he's at it. The scrutiny is kind of compulsory, really, since his reflection is only about six inches away. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, but his busted lip has mostly returned to its normal size. He still thinks he's looked a lot better.

T-shirts and jeans seem to be the standard crew uniform, so Dean's had no trouble in that department. He thinks about changing his shirt—he's been wearing this one for three days and he can't smell himself yet, but he figures it's got to be getting pretty ripe. But then there's no telling when he'll get a chance to do laundry either, so he decides to wait until he can shower before wasting a clean one.

Dean's has no idea where he's supposed to be or what he's supposed to be doing. Hell, maybe bus driving is his job now. He steps out the door of the RV and blinks into the blinding sunlight. Tonight's show is an outdoor venue, some sort of amphitheatre, and Dean wanders through the gate. What he'd really like is some food and after that a shower, but at the moment he'll settle for the sight of a familiar face.

He can see right away that the stage is pretty well set up and ready to go, so it looks like they let him sleep through the load-in. Not like he was much use with the heavy lifting anyway. And he's still so tired, like he slept but didn't rest much. He feels faded, like a ghost passing through other people's lives and leaving nothing behind. He's been told ghosts are more solid when they're angry, but at the moment he can't even dredge up that claim to substance.

The sight of Joe Roper heading toward him with his characteristic loping stride snaps Dean out of his weird thoughts.

"Hey, it lives! You feeling up to working the floor tonight?"

"Yes?" Dean answers, no idea what that entails, but Joe doesn't seem bothered by the question in Dean's voice, just keeps rolling.

"Good. Meet me in front of the stage in an hour," Joe says, and disappears down a hallway.

Dean's a little irritated by the guessing game, but he's picking up a faint smell of food now and that becomes his prime objective. He wanders, following the scent, until he finds a small conference room with a table loaded down with sandwiches, little bags of chips and Snapple. He's got no idea whether he's supposed to be here or not, but at this point he's ready to eat the tablecloth so he dives in.

The food improves his mood considerably and the rest of the night picks up from there. He meets Joe down front for instruction while the "cattle," as Joe calls the fans, are starting to pour in. Working the floor turns out to be mostly just standing in front of the stage making sure the crowd stays where it belongs, and keeping an eye out for the occasional thrown foreign object.

When Night Shayde takes the stage, Dean is stationed just forward of stage left, with Joe himself in the same position on the opposite side. The band crashes into their opening song and Dean scans the crowd. It's the first thing he's done since he started this gig that feels normal to him and he relaxes into it as the show ramps up. The audience's excitement grows and the front line starts to edge forward into Dean's perimeter, pushing up against the tape that marks the stage boundary.

Dean knows he's nowhere near fighting form physically, so he compensates by using his facial expressions and body language to communicate, try to discourage potential trouble before it starts. It works better on the guys, actually. The girls are mostly too engrossed in the performance to even see Dean, which is kind of a new experience for him.

One girl in a tube top suddenly decides to launch herself across the space between the crowd and the stage. Dean grabs her around the waist with one arm and pulls her back against his uninjured side.

She's kind of cute, but her eyes are glassy—she's obviously high on something other than the music—and her face is inches from Dean's when her eyes finally focus. Dean grins.

"Gotta stay behind the line, sweetheart," Dean says, picking her up and dropping her back into the mass of swaying fans. She grins and blows him a kiss, but she doesn't try it again.

That's really the worst they have to deal with and before he knows it, the concert is over and Joe is slapping him on the shoulder.

"Good job, man. You're a natural. You handled that girl like a pro," Joe says.

"Well, I've had a lot of experience handling women," Dean says, smirking.

Joe snorts.

"Call me in ten years, Wet-Behind-The-Ears. Maybe you'll have half the stories I do."

"Maybe, but _I'll_ still have hair left by then," Dean cracks.

Joe flips him off, which in Dean's experience usually means a person's out of comebacks.

"So, what now, boss?" Dean asks, throwing him a bone because he's feeling good, recharged from all the activity and excitement. "We headed for California? South Beach?"

Joe laughs.

"Sorry to disappoint, but no driving for you tonight, bud," Joe says, clapping him on the back. "We got three open days and only three hundred miles to the next gig. That means real hotel rooms and a day off tomorrow. Let's go find the beer."

**

When the load-out is done and they drag themselves into the lobby of the hotel, there's some bitching amongst the crew about the quality, but it actually looks a shade nicer than what Dean's used to. He drops his loose-packed duffle in the room Joe shows him, but then Michael pokes his head in the door before it can close.

"Hey, man…the beer's down here," he says, grinning and motioning down the hall.

Dean's not one to argue with free beer, so he follows Michael to a room which might or might not be Slam's. He's there, but so are all of the other crew members Dean knows, plus a couple of others he's never met, including one girl.

"This is Jennifer. She's the merch girl," Michael says, pointing to the girl sitting cross-legged in the corner of the room. Her hair is black and she's pretty average-looking except for her eyes, which are large and bright blue.

"You can call me Jen," she says, smiling faintly at Dean and taking a long swallow from the beer in her hand. She seems kind of detached from the rest of the group, like she's just there to observe. Dean can relate.

"Hey, I'm Dean," he answers, lowering himself to the floor beside her. "What's a merch girl? Is it something dirty? I'm kind of hoping, 'cause I've been hanging out with these smelly bastards for the last couple of days and let me tell you…"

She interrupts him with a lazy chuckle and picks up her cue.

"'Merch girl' means I sell t-shirts and a bunch of other worthless crap." She lowers her voice and narrows her eyes. "But on my days off, I put on a skin-tight leather bodysuit and fight crime, smite evildoers—blow random sailors in back alleys—you know, the usual."

"That sounds like a pretty dirty job, all right…" Dean starts and then they finish the sentence together. "…but somebody's got to do it," they say in unison, laughing.

Dean's comfortable here on the floor, so he stays. They drink and the beer keeps coming and Jen gets quieter while the rest of the room gets progressively noisier. The crew is trading stories and insults and Dean just sits back and listens. He doesn't have any stories suitable for the present company. In fact, he's pretty much lost the thread of whatever Joe is saying when Slam pounds his fist on the table and bellows, "You!"

Dean jerks his head up toward the noise and finds the big man's finger pointing straight at him. His mouth falls open. _What?_

The momentary silence breaks up with laughter and catcalls and Dean looks to Michael for an explanation.

"Dude, you're about to find out how Slam got his nickname," Michael says, laughing.

Slam motions Dean to the chair across the table from him and Dean goes warily, wondering if he's about to undergo some kind of new guy initiation or something. Then somebody sets a thirty-pack of beer on the table. Slam counters by slapping a worn church key down, and Dean gets it.

Shotgun.

Dean smirks and looks down at the table for a minute, then around at the crew before he returns to Slam.

"Okay, old man. You think you got it, bring it on."

The crew erupts again, like Dean knew they would. He's going to lose this contest and he's going to lose big, but he can't really get out of it without causing problems for himself down the road and at this point showmanship is everything. It won't be the worst thing he's ever had to do to fit in someplace new anyway, although he doubts it's going to do the hotel's carpet any favors.

He pats his jeans pocket for a sharp object, then realizes his knife is still God knows where. He looks over one shoulder and then the other, leaning back in his chair to grab the complementary ball point pen off the desk.

Slam sneers a little as he looks Dean in the eye and rolls a can out of the carton. He hefts it in his palm and picks up the church key like an Old West gunslinger. Dean eyes him back, one eyebrow lifted.

"Count us off, Mikey," Slam says.

"Ready? One, two, three…go!"

Dean slams the point of the pen into his can and seals his mouth over the hole, pulling up on the tab and sucking down beer for all he's worth. The chanting and cheering fills the small room and Dean feels more than he hears Slam's can hit the floor, at least a full second before his does.

Dean wipes his mouth on the back of his arm and laughs, and Slam shoves his shoulder too hard, nearly sends him flying out of the chair and onto the floor. Dean rights himself and Slam sets out two more cans.

"Good effort, kid! Best two out of three, now, let's go." Slam points at Dean as he says it, face solemn in the way that people look when they're trying not to seem drunk, and Dean thinks, _why not?_

"Why not" becomes obvious to Dean after another four beers in about ten minutes—or it might be ten beers in four minutes—he's mostly lost count and the floor is littered with empty cans. Dean's buzzed already and he's done this before, so he knows it's probably going to get worse before it gets better. His stomach is sloshing and everything is already starting to blur around the edges, but one thing is clear at that point: Dean's got to give it up or throw up.

Slam tries to set up another round and Dean shakes his head, and yep, there it goes…the rest of the alcohol hitting his bloodstream. He blinks hard, then waves his hand at the table for a few seconds before he manages to make actual words.

"No, no, no…I'm out, dude…you win," Dean says, pulling groans, calls of 'Pussy!' and other assorted trash talk from their audience. Dean ignores them. He's busy breathing, sucking air in hard to settle his stomach. The motion of his chest is violent enough to make his rib twinge beneath the alcoholic haze.

But apparently while Dean's body was busy reminding him why he can't afford to vomit, they've progressed to the philosophical portion of the evening's festivities, because Slam begins to speak.

"Now don't feel bad, young 'un," Slam slurs, and Dean frowns slightly. He's a little confused. His stomach seems to be giving up its effort to reject the beer and the pain in his rib has slunk off into the background, and he's actually feeling pretty good now. Why would Slam think he feels bad? Does he look bad? But Slam continues to talk and Dean loses what little train of thought he managed to string together in the first place.

"It's like this, me fine boyo…when you get down to the short and curlies, you wanna play goddamned drinking games? You gotta be a pro, or they'll just eat you up and spit you out. Man, I used t'…every weekend when I lived in North Carolina about ten miles from Camp Lejeune…Sundays was all about outdrinking younger Marines."

"Sounds like a good weekend, Slam," somebody says.

"It was a good weekend every weekend. I got good at my skill…and if you're gonna drink like a pro, you gotta practice like you play. If you drink hard in practice and don't drink hard in the show? You got no game."

Dean's pretty lost; in fact, he got distracted back at the beginning of the lecture with the weird Irish thing Slam had going on there, and the sports metaphor really isn't helping, either. Actually Dean thinks he deserves a fucking medal for remembering a word like "metaphor" at all right now.

Slam keeps talking and at some point Dean slides off his chair and onto the couch. There's more drinking after that, too, but Dean's mostly done. His last coherent thought is that _losing isn't so bad._

**

Dean's sore rib complains him awake again the next morning—or maybe it's afternoon, he's not sure. Waking up hurting is already starting to seem like a way of life. One thing that's not normal is the noise of heavy breathing and snoring he's hearing. He opens his eyes to check and a stab of pain lances through his temple. He looks down at himself. He's still wearing the same clothes from…he's not sure how many days ago…his back jammed into the corner of the shitty, hard-backed little hotel couch.

Dean eases to a sitting position with a groan and rubs at his face with both hands, then slides them away and looks at the room. Bodies are everywhere. Dean doesn't know enough to make an accurate count, but it looks like most of the crew just dropped and slept where they fell, except he doesn't see Jen anywhere.

Dean scopes out the best route to the bathroom because he needs to piss, vomit and drink some water, not necessarily in that order. He steps carefully over Michael, who's stretched out on the floor in front of the sofa, nearly lying on Dean's feet. He passes Jake and snorts, tilting his head slightly to appreciate the detailed and fairly artistic rendering of an erect dick over a pair of balls that's now inked on Jake's bare chest in black marker.

The front door clicks open as Dean's leaving the bathroom and Joe walks in and starts nudging random bodies with the toe of his boot.

"Rise and shine, ladies! Let's go, get your fat, lazy ass up, Phil. We're out of here in thirty," Joe says, wading through the room, stirring a wake of moaning and shifting behind him as he goes.

By the time Joe finishes stomping his way around the room, Dean can hear a telltale bubbling sound from one corner of the room, followed by the thick, sweet scent of pot smoke. He eyes Joe questioningly.

"I thought we had a couple of days before the next gig?" Dean asks.

"We do. Don't mean we don't have things to do," Joe answers, with a lopsided grin. "Thirty minutes!" he bellows on his way out the door.

Dean decides he needs a shower a lot worse than he needs a bong hit and he wanders down the hall. He tries his key card in three door locks before he finds the one where he left his stuff the night before. _Home sweet home. _For the next three days, anyway.

**

Joe is already in the driver's seat of the running bus when Dean steps in. Joe stops him and hands him a small wad of money.

"Advance on your per diem," Joe says matter-of-factly.

Dean thanks him and pockets the cash. He's feeling close to human again, just left with a slight residual headache he knows he earned, and it's not that bad anyway. Bear swings into the bus behind Dean and Joe closes the door and pulls out. The rest of the crew is already set up in the back with another bong and Michael passes it to Dean almost as soon as he sits down. Dean takes it, figures this whole trip has been a "when in Rome" kind of experience and there's no reason to change it now.

He decides it was a good call as the smoke settles easy in his bones and takes the edge off his headache. When Michael hands off to him the third time, Dean remembers to ask.

"What are we doing?"

Michael laughs, chokes out a lungful of smoke and the word "Go-carts."

"You're shitting me."

When they pull up to the Malibu Grand Prix and Mini Golf park five minutes later, Dean is forced to conclude that Michael was not, in fact, shitting him. And when they all climb into their miniscule cars, it becomes even clearer to Dean how utterly serious these guys are about the whole stoned go-cart racing thing.

Dean squashes himself into the third car back and checks out the controls while he's waiting for everyone else to get loaded. So to speak. The tiny cockpit is surreal after driving so many miles in the Big Pig, as he's taken to mentally calling the crew bus, and he spaces out the entire safety lecture. Or maybe that's the weed; it's hitting him kind of hard and he's not sure if it's something about the batch or if it's just that he hasn't done any in a while.

He looks for Michael and finds him just behind him to his left, revving his car with both hands on the wheel, gleeful expression on his face, and Dean thinks he could easily pass for a ten-year-old right now. Dean faces forward again to find Slam turned around looking at him from his position in the car ahead of Dean. He bares his teeth at Dean just as the signal flashes green and the attendant motions them out. Slam steps on the pedal and peels out without even turning his head back to the front, then laughs maniacally when the attendant yells at him to slow it down.

Dean jams his foot on the gas and swings out onto the curving, concrete track right behind him. He speeds down the straight, chasing Slam's car and fending off Jake's efforts to pass him. If these little turds want a piece of him they're going to have to work for it.

They drive and swerve and skid until all Dean can see is a whirl of color and smoke. He zones out on the smell of the exhaust, nothing but reflex taking him around the other cars. A weird sounds floats to him on the wind of his movement and it takes him a minute to realize it's his own laughter he's hearing.

There are a couple of near misses, but no one wrecks during the first round. Michael slaps him on the back as they climb out, laughing like idiots, and Dean realizes he came in first. He punches the air with a fist, grinning hard and throwing back the other guys' trash talk. Slam flips him off, but the big man is laughing hard enough that his beer gut shakes.

It's the middle of the week and the park isn't crowded, so they run the little cars in almost back-to-back go-rounds. It's goofy as hell, but Dean's actually having a good time.

After a while Dean loses count of how many times they've gone and decides to sit out a round, grabbing a soda and flopping down onto a bench to drink it. That's how he sees it happen, spooling out in front of him like one of those slow-motion replays on ESPN.

Michael takes the second turn about five times faster than he should. There's a loud screech and a cloud of black smoke as his tires lose their grip on the track and the car goes airborne. Miraculously the car stays upright during the flight, bouncing to the ground, tearing across the mini-golf course and rolling gently to a stop about five yards short of a children's birthday party.

They're invited to leave the facility after that, of course, but Michael is laughing and happy, just rolling in the glory, and Dean can't help grinning and shaking his head over how thrilled he is over his wreck. The kid's going to be telling that story for years, Dean can tell. Nobody else seems too disappointed either, especially when Joe mentions food, and they straggle out of the park in a bedraggled, scruffy line.

Dean slouches into his seat on the bus. He's tired and his rib is sore from driving the stupid go-cart and laughing so much, but he realizes he's pretty okay with it all anyway.

"What _was_ that?" he asks, more to himself than anything, but Michael answers him.

"Day off, man," Michael says with a shrug, like the rest of it goes without saying.

Dean thinks back over the low-stress, friction-free day they've just spent, and decides it probably does.

**

They fall into a rough routine after that, one day bleeding seamlessly into the next. Dean spends a lot of nights driving and everyone else hates doing it, so they're all okay with him for being exempted from load-in duties. He sleeps during the day, getting up in time to find something to eat before the show. That part is usually no problem. Getting a shower is almost always a lot trickier.

He's up early today because he's got something to do and that's what he wants to focus on right now. They're in Sioux City, which is about ninety miles from Council Bluffs and he just got his first paycheck. It's not enough money to cover the repairs on the Impala but he'll have the rest soon, and Dean feels okay with ordering the new transmission using part of what he's got already for a deposit.

Dean drives to Council Bluffs to give the mechanic the money himself, after talking Joe into letting him take one of the empty trucks. He could have called the guy, put it on the credit card he still has, but if he's honest, he really wants to check in on the car.

He pops the lock on the storage shed and opens the door. The heat is explosive and he steps back until the temperature equalizes. Dean climbs into the Impala and sits there sweating for a minute, soaking up the familiar feel, inhaling the smells of home. Then it hits him like it always does, but he'd forgotten…oh, _shit,_ he _forgot_…the way every inch of this car makes him think "Dad."

Dean sits there a good five minutes before he gets himself under enough control to open his phone and press the button. And of course he gets the goddamned voice mail.

He ends the call, burst of anger washing away the last of his spasm of sentimentality. His dad can tell he's still alive, if he ever bothers to check. That's what the missed call log is for.

**

After the hundred-mile round trip in the Midwest summer heat, Dean decides a shower is a priority. It's an arena show and there's probably a ton of locker rooms somewhere in the bowels of the huge building. Dean's walking toward the back entrance of the arena with a towel and a clean t-shirt slung around his neck when he sees something that hits him wrong. Or more like somebody.

There's a big guy in a wifebeater undershirt peering into the back of one of the larger equipment trucks. He looks kind of familiar, but Dean's doesn't think he's one of the crew. Dean doesn't know all of them by name, but he's got a good handle on their faces. Besides, this guy has a shifty look, slithering around the containers like he doesn't belong, or at least doesn't know exactly what he's looking for.

Dean switches directions and slips back into the bus. He eases down the steps and outside with his Beretta ready in his hand. It's the worst time of evening to see anything, the last of the day's light washing away the clarity, like watching a movie in black and white. Dean stalks the dumpsters and empty trucks, stopping behind a light pole when he hears voices. He cranes his neck around the corner of the building.

The white undershirt shines up relatively bright against the shadow of the building and Dean creeps closer to see what's going on. He can tell pretty quickly that the man he's been following now has a smaller person pinned against the wall, and from his posture Dean's guessing he's holding a knife. There's no good firing angle here, so he just gets as close as possible before he gives away his position.

"Hey!" Dean barks, when he thinks it's the best he's going to get.

It startles the guy like Dean figured, but the punk is smart enough to grab his intended victim as he whirls, using the smaller person as a shield in front of him.

It's Michael.

Dean holds his gun steady in their direction, likes to think he doesn't betray anything on his face, but the big man sneers at him anyway.

"I'll have him gutted before you can get off a shot."

"Maybe, but if you do, I'll kill you anyway. Either way, you'll be dead," Dean growls, staring him down.

Dean watches him, sees the flicker of intent in his eyes a split second before the guy drops the knife, shoves Michael at him and runs. Dean grabs Michael by the shoulder one-handed and shoves him behind his body with one sweeping movement, but he's too late to catch the fleeing man. He's fast for a big guy.

Dean hesitates, comes within a hair of just shooting the attacker in the back as he runs off, but he lowers the gun instead. He'll probably regret letting the asshole get away, but right now he doesn't want to deal with all the blowback that will inevitably result from firing his gun right here in the middle of town.

"Shit, thanks, man," Michael says, breathing hard.

"Yeah, you're welcome," Dean says, scanning the area for further threat before he turns his attention back to Michael. "Now, you want to tell me why that guy wants you so bad?"

"I…I don't know. He just came out of nowhere, dude…"

Dean can see the lie in the kid's eyes and he interrupts what is undoubtedly going to be a totally lame explanation.

"This is a steaming pile of bullshit right here, Mikey." Dean points in the direction of the big man's flight. "That was the guy from the bar, the one that kicked the shit out of me the night I met you."

"Uh, how do you know?" Michael stammers.

Dean squats down and picks up the knife.

"Because this belongs to me."


	3. Chapter 3

Running on Empty

Chapter 3

"I don't know, Joe. Some jerk back in Council Bluffs…Neal, I think the name was. Mike swears all he did was fuck the guy's sister," Dean says.

They're leaning against the stage fifteen minutes past show time, watching the crowd stir restlessly. Night Shayde is late going on tonight, some malfunction of equipment or personnel, Dean hears; he doesn't know or care about the details.

Joe raises an eyebrow.

"Really? Mikey had sex? With a girl?"

Dean shrugs.

"I know; that's what I said. Still, I think maybe he's telling the truth about that part, but there's something else…it doesn't add up, man."

Joe rubs his fingers across his chin, nodding.

"Guy waits two weeks and drives an hour just to shake down some kid for screwing his sister…did he knock her up or something?"

"I asked him that, too," Dean says. "And no, not that he knows of."

"I can't believe I'm standing here discussing my little brother's sex life. Hell, I didn't know he had one to discuss until ten minutes ago. Although, he's twenty-two fucking years old, I guess it's about time," Joe says craning his neck to look off to the right of the stage. "_Christ,_ what the hell is the hold up?"

Dean's still trying to process Joe's previous sentence, the one where he mentioned Michael's age. _Twenty-two?_ Dean had figured eighteen or nineteen, tops, and he and Michael are actually the same age.

Tony comes huffing up to the mic.

"Hey, everybody…guys, ladies, sorry for the wait, but here they are, what you've been waiting for…_Night Shayde!"_

The crowd cheers as the band takes the stage and starts to play, and Dean and Joe go to work. It's harder work than usual, actually, and Dean's not sure why, unless it's that the waiting has built the tension up higher than normal. There's a lot of jostling and hostility and he has to break up two shoving matches in the first set alone.

Of course the crowd might be picking up on the shitty onstage attitude. The lead singer, who goes by the name River Rhodes, has his considerable charm cranked up to full volume, talking and flirting with the audience like he's trying to make it up to them for starting late, but Dean's still picking up some discomfort from the crowd that seems like it's mostly directed at Rick the Dick. Dean starts watching the guitarist out of the corner of his eye and the guy does seem even surlier than usual, which is saying a fuck ton.

He's stomping back and forth across the stage, finding fault with his instruments, flinging picks, and glaring at the monitors—basically acting like an all-around pissy little jerk. Dean's guessing there was some kind of major band bitch-fight right before they came onstage; he's too busy dealing with the results to think much about it.

A blonde in a halter top suddenly peels off from the crowd and makes a run for it, makes it halfway onto the stage by the time Dean hauls her down. He's got her around the waist when she wraps both arms around his neck and grins, then slides her body slowly down his.

"You're cute," she says, giggling.

"Right back at ya, sweetheart, but you gotta be cute behind the rope," Dean says, smiling back.

She doesn't make a move to take her arms away and then without warning she lays one on him, kissing him hard on the mouth. Dean realizes he's let it go on longer than he should when the crowd noise suddenly swells and it dawns on him that they're probably close enough to the stage lights that the whole arena can see what's going on. He pulls back and gently disentangles the girl's arms from his neck, lifts her and sets her down on the other side of the rope. The crowd absolutely loses it then, and Dean can't help smiling a little.

"Hey, asshole, the show's up here!"

The words are clearly audible over the PA, although the last half of the sentence is only heard near the stage, because Bear catches the drama and damps the mic. Dean looks over his shoulder and Rick's still leaning over River's microphone, which he used to broadcast the remark.

The crowd's volume is starting to drop off now, faltering into an awkward, waiting hush. Rick is looking straight at Dean and now thousands of other people are too. It's kind of the definition of awkward andDean looks for Joe for help.

Something comes flying at his face, glancing off his temple before he can dodge. It's a bottle and Dean goes from acute discomfort to full on rage in approximately one point three seconds.

"You wanna fucking _throw shit_, motherfucker…" Dean growls.

He vaults onto the stage, scrabbling for footing and then targeting Rick like a heat-seeking missile. Rick looks terrified and backs up, tries to hide behind the drum setup. Dean hurdles what equipment he can and knocks aside what he can't dodge. He blows past the bank of amps, ignoring the squeals of feedback. The crowd roars as Dean gets within a foot of Rick before Joe finally catches him and hauls him back to the arena floor. Joe hands Dean off to Slam and points at the exit.

"Get out of here, now! Go cool off!"

**

Dean sits on the steps of the bus, drinking and thinking, always a dangerous combination in his experience. It's not his first fuck-up and it won't be his last, but it is the first one he's managed to execute under a spotlight in full view of several thousand people. He is kind of hoping that's a one-time deal, for sure.

Dean sighs and takes a long swallow of his beer. Maybe it's just a sign that it's time for him to go. He knew this was a temporary gig, only meant to last long enough to get him and his baby back on the road. Of course, it's not like he's got (anybody) anywhere to go back to either, but hell, he's twenty-two years old, a grown man. There's no reason he can't hunt solo. If he could figure out a way to get the rest of his pay…

Roadies start to trickle out of the arena then; apparently the show is over. Joe ambles to the bus and folds himself in half, perches on a parking curb facing Dean. He heaves a huge sigh. Dean reaches behind him, inside the bus, and hands Joe a beer without a word. Dean figures Joe is waiting for him to break the silence, offer an excuse, but Dean learned better than that by the time he was ten, at the knee of John Winchester. Or over it. Joe is way out of his league and he folds first.

"Rick was right, you know. The show is about what happens on the stage, not off of it."

Dean eyes him, takes another swallow.

"So did I buy myself an FOH pass for tomorrow night?" Dean asks finally.

It comes out sounding calm, but there's a flutter in his belly that takes him by surprise. He might care about the answer to that question a lot more than he should.

But Joe gives a bitter little chuckle.

"Oh, Rick wanted you fired, but Tony managed to convince him that you actually had better grounds to press assault charges than Rick. After all, he made contact and you never did."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, I owe him one."

Joe rubs his eyes with both hands and then drops them, looks Dean in the eye.

"That dog won't hunt, Dean. Look, I've been in this business a long time, and I can appreciate the full on fuck-you as much as the next guy—nobody deserves it more than that asshole Rick, believe me—but there are better ways. Use your head."

Dean returns his gaze for a moment, then nods.

"We've got two more shows and then a six-day hiatus and I can't afford to lose you. Shit, I'll be lucky to have any hair left by the time we're done with that." Joe sighs again and stands up.

Dean lets the subtle compliment slide by and focuses on the second half of the remark. He frowns. Six days is almost more down time than they've had altogether, up to now.

"Six days off in a row? That's a good thing, right?"

Joe sighs tiredly.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

**

_Old roadies never die—they just pack it up and roll out of the way._ – Li'l Roadie

The Salt Lake City show is pretty unremarkable except for the way Dean has a really hard time turning his back on the stage. He squares his shoulders against the waves of hate radiating from behind him and he's mostly able to ignore it after the first half hour or so.

After the show Dean grabs a bottle of water and watches the load-out for a few minutes. They're staying in a hotel tonight, but they're leaving for Colorado Springs tomorrow and Dean likes to make sure the bus is cherry before they go that far. He wanders out to the parking lot.

Dean opens the bus' hood and checks the brake oil and transmission fluid. He hasn't worked on that many diesels, but he knows the basics. He thinks it might be about time to knock the dirt out of the air filter, too, with all the desert driving they've been doing. He's elbow deep in the engine compartment when Joe walks up.

"Need you to watch the band tonight," Joe says without preamble.

Dean straightens up and gives Joe a pained frown, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

"Seriously? Can I just stab myself in the face instead and we'll call it even?"

Joe snorts and Dean notices that his t-shirt says, "Shut up—that's why."

"It won't be that bad. Tony unclenched his grimy little fists and shelled out for a top floor suite for the after party. Some kind of reward for the band, "good behavior" or something," Joe says, rolling his eyes.

"Good for them," Dean says, voice heavy with sarcasm. "What am I supposed to do, hand out gold stars? Cookies?"

"Close, but not quite."

Joe holds out a small roll of stickers. Dean looks at them sourly, drawing back like they might bite him when he sees what's on the front. Honest-to-God smiley faces.

**

It turns out Dean's "job" is to stand outside the door of the suite and screen the "local talent." He's also not supposed to let the band leave the suite, because according to Joe, allowing the little fuckers to roam free is a recipe for disaster.

"These guys aren't exactly Motley. They won't care about leaving if we keep them entertained until they pass out. The hotel info was "leaked" so there'll be more than enough girls showing up for the party. Just pick out the best-looking ones, give them one of those stickers, and let them in the door," Joe says, handing Dean a key card. "When the smiley faces are gone, that's it. Don't let anybody else in. Simple."

"Terrific."

Joe laughs and smacks him on the shoulder.

"I'll come check on you in a few hours and we'll reassess. Maybe the kiddies will wear themselves out early and the grownups can get some sleep."

Dean takes up a position in front of the door to the suite where he can still see the only points of access to the hallway, the bank of elevators and the stairwell door. And the fans do show up—he's a little surprised by the numbers, actually—but he's still nut-numbingly bored in about fifteen minutes. Some of the girls are cute, sure, but it's not like it's doing Dean any good. Pressing smiley face stickers directly onto girls' boobs is only entertaining for so long, even to him.

And why they all even want to get into the room is completely beyond Dean. Must be the magic of rock and roll or something, because seriously, have any of them actually seen these guys? They're nothing special onstage and Dean can't imagine they're any more attractive when they're puking drunk.

It takes Dean less than an hour to hand out all his stickers and he's glad, because he felt like a fool standing there with the stupid things in his hand. He tosses the backing paper to the floor and leans against the wall. He checks his watch and it's about 12:30. Maybe Joe will take pity on him soon and relieve him.

He hears the elevator open and looks over hopefully, but three more girls get off and clump up into a huddle, like they're plotting strategy or something, and Dean raises an eyebrow at them.

One of the girls breaks off from the herd after a minute and trollops toward him. She's not overly attractive, kind of horse-faced, actually, but her shirt is cut down to there and she's got the rack to do it justice. Dean might be working, but nothing says he can't look, so he does.

She smiles as she approaches and Dean smiles back. She puts her hand on his chest and leans in, all but shoving her tits in his face.

"Hey, sexy. You the bouncer?" she purrs.

"That's me. Party's full, though," Dean says, eyes wandering between her face and her cleavage.

"Too bad. Sure I can't talk you into letting me and my friends in? There's just three of us," she says, glancing over at the two girls giggling by the bank of elevators.

Dean shakes his head.

"Wish I could help you out, but…" he shrugs.

"Maybe I can help you out," she says and sinks to her knees.

And _fuck_, she must have done this before, because she's got his pants open and her mouth on him before it's even soaked into his brain what's happening. Dean should stop her, but _Jesus, _it's been a long time with nothing but his right hand and he kind of can't believe this is actually happening. It's a back alley act performed in bright hotel lighting and maybe that's what makes it feel like a dream—okay, a pretty damned good _wet_ dream—with her friends watching from the end of the hall, anyone liable to walk by anytime. It doesn't take him long.

When it's over the girl just gets up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She looks at Dean expectantly where he's slouched against the wall. His brain is still offline and he's got no idea what he could possibly say, so he just pulls the key card out of his pocket, reaches over and shoves it into the slot.

"Thanks."

"Anytime," Dean answers stupidly, but she grins at him and turns the door handle with one hand, motions to her friends with the other. They're still giggling as they slip inside.

The door isn't even closed behind them when the one to the stairwell opens and Michael steps out. Dean tucks himself back in and zips up with a quick flick of his wrist, but Michael is grinning like he either saw or figured out what happened. Great.

Dean's legs are a still little shaky and he slides down the wall, winds up sitting against it with his wrists on his bent knees. He might as well get comfortable. Michael is here, so obviously there'll be lots of talking, from one end of the equation, anyway.

But Dean pretty much forgives Michael his knowing grin when the guy hands him a beer, especially after Dean takes a long pull from the bottle and it's the second best thing that's happened to him today. Michael sits down on the floor across from him with a beer of his own.

"Joe didn't tell you about the perks when he sent you up here, huh?" Michael asks.

"He might have left out a couple of things, yeah," Dean says, smirking. "In fact, I think you guys have all been holding out on me. Shit."

Dean takes another drink. He considers, knows balls to bone that the kid's not telling him everything about what happened in Council Bluffs. This might be a good time to do a little more digging.

"What about you, Mikey? You been keeping all the hot ones for yourself?" he asks.

Michael laughs.

"It's Michael, jerkface. And the answer is no, not so much. In fact, until a few weeks ago…" he trails off, dropping his eyes self-consciously.

"Oh, yeah. Shelley? Wasn't that her name?" Dean asks, mouth twitching at the corner. _Oh, Mikey_…y_ou're gonna walk right into this, aren't you?_

"Sherri," Michael says. "You should see her Dean—dark hair, big pretty eyes. Exotic-looking, you know, kind of like that chick on Dark Angel?"

Dean really doesn't know, but he doesn't say so. It doesn't matter anyway, because Michael keeps talking, going on about how hot Sherri is and finally finishing with,

"…she's so gorgeous, I couldn't even believe she wanted to be with me."

Michael sits there a minute like he's remembering, and whatever he's seeing causes his expression to slowly change from wistful to worried, then to a little scared.

Dean watches the emotions flicker across his face. _Jesus, he's so easy to read_, Dean thinks as he drinks his beer and waits him out.

"So this Neal character," Dean says, when he thinks Michael has stewed long enough.

Michael sighs and nods.

"He's a dick."

"I noticed," Dean says. "What I can't figure out is why he's so fixated on you."

Michael shrugs and Dean shakes his head.

"That's not gonna cut it this time, Mike. I might not be there to jerk your scrawny ass out of the fire next time. And for some reason this guy is a fucking persistent son of a bitch. I'm wondering why that is."

Michael looks at him for a second, then back down at the floor. Dean's actually surprised it's taken as long as it has when he breaks.

"Okay," Michael says, taking a deep breath and running his hand through his hair. He starts talking, voice rising in pitch and agitation as he speaks.

"Okay. Neal thinks I took something of his. He…I think he's a dealer, meth maybe, I don't know. I swear, Dean, I didn't know, I just went back to the house with Sherri, but Neal keeps saying he's out five thousand bucks worth of dope and he thinks I took it, but I didn't, I swear…_God_, I just wanted to get laid, you know?"

Dean groans. This is so much worse than he'd thought.

"Christ, why didn't you tell me all that in the first place? No wonder he's got his shorts in such a twist. He's not going to just walk away from that much money…he can't."

"But I didn't have anything to do with that and I didn't know if you'd believe me and…I didn't know what to do." Michael finishes, making a helpless hand gesture.

Dean shakes his head, trying to think, but of course Mikey can never shut up.

"It's just…I guess I was hoping he'd go away, you know. I didn't _do_ anything."

"Except his sister," Dean says absently, rubbing his hand across his jaw.

"Well, yeah…except for that. I'm not sure he even knows about that, actually, or if he'd care. The problem is, I don't have his dope and I don't have five thousand dollars and I don't have a clue what to do."

Dean really doesn't either, but he's not going to tell Michael that. Somebody has to keep it together here.

"Just…just stay close, okay? This guy is serious. Don't go off alone until we figure this out."

"Okay. I can do that," Michael says, taking a shaky breath. He starts looking better, like he's relieved.

It takes Dean a second to realize that he feels better, too. Even if he hasn't got any idea how he's going to do it, somebody trusts him to take care of things. He's missed that.

**

Heat waves shimmer off the soft asphalt of the parking lot as Dean crosses to the admin bus the next morning. The bus' big air conditioning unit is cycling noisily, so it's a safe bet that Tony's inside, adding up the receipts from the previous show. Tony's a cynical bastard, but he's sharp and he's the only one who always knows exactly where they're supposed to be and when, so Dean's gotten into the habit of checking with him before he starts driving anywhere. Dean's ninety-nine percent sure that Colorado Springs is their next gig, but he's got another reason to be here today anyway.

Dean knocks on the side door and waits a bit. Tony grunts out the word "Come!" and Dean goes. Tony's got papers spread all over the table, flanked by a printing calculator on one side and a box of doughnuts on the other. Dean can smell the Irish in his coffee from here.

"How'd it go?" Dean asks, snagging a doughnut and lounging on one hip against the arm of the couch across from Tony.

Tony makes a haphazard slap at Dean's hand as it comes out of the doughnut box and rolls his eyes. "Not bad; if we're lucky we'll break even by the end of the week."

Dean chews and ponders for a minute.

"Why does everyone keep talking about six days off like it's an impending apocalypse?"

Tony snorts, doesn't even look up as he says, "You'll see."

Dean raises a doubting eyebrow.

"So where are we spending this Hiatus of Doom?"

"Lincoln," Tony says, spitting the word like it tastes bad.

Lincoln? He doesn't remember seeing that name on the tour itinerary. Of course, he hasn't seen it in a while. He chucked that worthless piece of shit in the nearest trashcan after that first night.

"Nebraska? What's in Lincoln?"

Tony leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head, stretching. He looks Dean in the eye for the first time since Dean walked in.

"A bunch of bullshit, likely," Tony says. "River and Linc have family there; it's where they grew up. I think maybe Linc has an ex and a couple of kids who still live there. Why did you think he started using that name?"

"Linc" is the drummer's stage name, of course, and Dean honestly hasn't thought much about it where it came from, one way or the other. It seems weird to think of the band having families, too. In fact, they rarely enter Dean's mind at all unless one of them is being a pain in his ass right at the moment. They might have been spawned full-blown from some grunge-rock Hellmouth, for all Dean's considered the question of their origins.

"That's…domestic…of them, I guess," Dean says.

Tony spits out a bitter laugh.

"Right. Except River's mom is all he's got left and she has Alzheimer's, stashed away in a home someplace. She doesn't even know him and he wouldn't visit her if she did. And Linc, well…his ex won't even let him see the kids and he hates his parents. He just goes back there out of some twisted desire to rub their noses in his 'success,'" Tony says, complete with air quotes around the last word.

Tony reaches around with both hands and twists his head hard to the right, then back in the other direction and his neck pops with a sickening crunch. He rolls his shoulders a couple of times, picks up a pen and bends over the table again.

Dean gets up to go, knowing he's already been dismissed. He steps outside, grinning as he closes the door behind him. There's one less scrap of paperwork on Tony's pile and he doesn't have a clue.

**

About an hour before the gates open that night, Dean wanders down the arena concourse with the borrowed sheet of paper in his hand. Jen is standing behind a table carefully folding t-shirts into neat little rectangles. She smiles at Dean when he walks up.

"What's up? You out of clean shirts?" she asks, indicating the merchandise on the table.

"Probably," Dean laughs. "But that's not why I'm here."

He hands her the paper. She scans it and laughs wickedly.

"Band hotel room assignments. Niiice."

"You'll make sure that finds its way into the right hands?"

She nods, still grinning.

"I'll take real good care of it for you."

"I owe you one, sweetheart," Dean says.

"Don't worry, I'll take it out in trade one way or the other," she says, winking at him over her shoulder as she carries the paper toward the offices further down the hall.

"Hey, Mack! Can I make a couple hundred copies?"

**

_Another town another place,  
Another girl, another face,  
Another truck, another race,  
I'm eating junk, feeling bad,  
Another night, I'm going mad,  
My woman's leaving, I feel sad,  
But I just love the life I lead,  
Another beer is what I need,  
Another gig my ears bleed._

We Are the Road Crew – Lemmy Klimester (Motorhead)

Dean still thinks of the crew bus as the Big Pig, but he's gotten used to the solid feel of the oversized rolling motel now, and the nickname is more affectionate than an insult. They're about an hour out of Colorado Springs when Dean senses the tension suddenly radiating from behind him.

He checks the interior mirror and the disturbance seems to center around Jake, who's on the phone. He can hear most of what the guy is saying and if Dean had been in any doubt about the call being bad news, Michael's pained frown from across the aisle would have cleared it up pretty quickly.

"Kristi, come on, don't…no, I know…but you knew that, it's my job. Baby, look, we've got six days off and we're not far away, right next door…I swear, I'll come home for a few days…"

Dean's ninety percent sure that Jake's from San Antonio, which is _way_ the hell and gone from "right next door," but he recognizes desperation when he hears it, too.

Jake listens for a minute or two, then just lets the phone drop to his lap, closing his eyes on a heavy exhale. He gets up and heads for his bunk without a word.

Michael looks at the floor for a beat or two, then walks to the front of the bus and flops down next to Dean.

"Girlfriend?" Dean asks, nodding toward the back of the bus, but keeping his eyes on the road.

Michael lets out a grunt to the negative and says, "Wife."

"Ouch," Dean answers. "That happen a lot?"

Michael gives a sideways nod that Dean takes to mean "often enough." What Michael says out loud is, "First time for Jake."

It's weird, the stuff Dean knows about the other guys on the crew and the stuff he doesn't—like he knew where Jake is from, but not that he was married, or how Joe has that on and off thing going with Sandra in catering. They're all together 24/7, eat, sleep and work together. If that weren't enough, Dean knows how to get people to talk about themselves without giving them much back—does it out of habit, really—but he's not sure he's ever taken it this far before. He's never stayed with one group of people long enough, never had a reason to care.

Dean glances at Michael sprawled in the shotgun seat and it gives Dean a strange jolt, like Michael doesn't belong in that spot, that he's just the smaller shadow of the one whose rightful place it is. Dean gives a sharp shake of his head. Must be some leftover damage from the concussion or something.

Just as Dean is thinking that Michael is uncharacteristically quiet tonight, he starts talking again.

"But yeah, it happens pretty much every tour. Women don't last with guys like us…we're gone all the time, you know how it is. Really Jake's lucky she bothered to call him. Last year Slam went home a couple days early and found his wife in bed with some guy she worked with. They'd been together eight years, too. But some make it work, I guess."

"Not you, though?"

"Nah, man. Guys like you and me…baby, we were born to run. Like Springsteen," he says, smirking.

Dean snorts.

"I don't care if you are the boss' brother—if you call me baby again, I'll tie you to the back of this bus and we'll see how fast you can run to Lincoln."

Michael shows Dean both his palms, grinning.

"There's a bong in the back that's calling my name, anyway," he says, rolling out of the seat. He takes a few steps up the center aisle before he turns his head back toward Dean.

"See ya later, baby," Michael says over his shoulder.

Dean grabs a mostly empty soft drink container out of his cup holder, lines up the shot in the mirror and throws it backhanded, nails Michael square in the back of the head with the missile.

"Yes! I still got it!" Dean pumps his fist, wincing at the end of the movement. His rib has healed enough it doesn't seem inclined to shift every time Dean does, but it's still plenty sore and it aches annoyingly for the rest of the drive.

It's totally worth it.

**

The day before their first full night in Lincoln, Joe gives Dean a conspiratorial look across the diner table where they're eating lunch, nods at Jake and says "Therapy tonight."

"And by "therapy" you mean…" Dean inquires.

"Massive doses of alcohol and the liberal application of strippers."

"Nice. Those always do wonders for my mood," Dean says, grinning and nodding approvingly.

Around eight that evening, Dean wanders into the hotel lobby. Joe and Jake are already there, waiting for the rest of the crew to gather. All four members of the band come staggering out of the elevators and slouch into the hotel lounge. Rick glares at Dean when he passes.

"They look like lukewarm shit," Joe comments. His t-shirt reads, "I'm Huge in Japan."

"You mean more than usual?" Dean asks.

"Apparently they were bad boys last night, and now they're not allowed to leave the hotel," Joe says, smirking. "I heard a bunch of fans somehow got hold of their room assignments. Quite a disturbance, hotel property was damaged. Finally had to call the cops. Or so I heard."

Dean makes a humming sound. "You don't say?"

"I wonder how that happened?" Joe says, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.

"Karma?" Dean says, grinning.

Joe chuckles, as the last of the crew finally wanders into the lobby. They pile into the bus and Joe hauls them to a strip club downtown, where Jake takes on enormous quantities of tequila and three hours of lap dances from Dazzle, the Puerto Rican Firecracker. The rest of the crew make sure Jake's shot glass stays full, but they're doing a pretty good job of keeping up with him, themselves.

Jen is there, looking sexy in a skintight leopard print skirt and black t-shirt. She's not nearly as loud as the guys are, but she's keeping pace with most of them, has drunk a couple of them pretty much under the table, in fact. She catches Dean's eye and winks at him over the big cigar she's smoking and it cracks him up. Luckily he's too drunk for it to hurt much.

About an hour before last call, Jake quietly slithers from his chair to the floor, out cold. Slam reaches down and hoists him over his shoulder with a grunt, then heads for the door. The rest of the crew recognizes their cue and they spill out into the parking lot with varying degrees of steadiness. They don't even try to drive back to the hotel; they just pile into the bus and pass out in their bunks.

Dean makes the mistake of stopping to piss on the way, meaning he has to search for an empty bunk. He bounces off the bulkheads a couple of times before he finally focuses on one at the top of a triple tier. While he's studying the problem of climbing that high while _he's_ this high, he notices Jake snoring loudly in the bunk below.

Dean reaches up and grabs the front retainer board of the top bunk, hauling himself up and flailing for purchase with his feet. He's pretty sure he steps on Jake's arm at least once in the process. After he decides he's probably not going to roll out onto the floor again, in spite of the way the bus seems to have started spinning, he peers over the edge of the bunk at Jake's sleeping face. _You poor son of a bitch. _

And maybe Dean's the poster child for alcohol and denial being the answers to exactly nothing, but for a few hours Jake's friends made sure he didn't have to think about the unpleasant reality that's waiting for him at the end of the tour. Dean decides he's proud to have been a part of that.

**

By day four of their stay in Lincoln, Dean understands Joe and Tony's dire predictions for this layover a lot better than he ever wanted to. Night before last he barely caught Mick, the bass player, before he smashed the headlights out of the band's bus with a mic stand. Yesterday he had to half coax, half manhandle the normally easygoing River down from a fucking tree. He was hanging upside down from a branch for no reason Dean could ever discern.

"Why me, Joe? Why am I the designated babysitter for these idiots?" Dean asks.

They're at a table in a small bar the band seems to favor, for whatever reason. Dean's not clear why it's so special. He thinks somebody said something about it being the first place Linc played.

"Because Mikey says you can handle yourself in a fight," Joe replies.

Dean frowns.

"Let's skip the part where I wonder whether your brother would know a good fighter if one bit him in the ass…he's seen me fight once, and that ended with me unconscious and hospitalized."

"Okay, let me put it this way, Dean: who else is going to do it? These guys ain't Aerosmith, with their own private bodyguards. My crew is _it._ You want me to send Bear? The old fart's arthritis is so bad, it's all he can do to get up and down from the stage. Or there's Jake…the kid's half bright, can barely find his own ass with both hands. Oh, I know, how about Mikey…should I continue?"

Dean shakes his head in disgust.

"No, I take your point. I just think it's going to defeat the purpose if I kill 'em myself."

Joe grins tiredly.

"If it comes to that, I swear I'll help you hide the bodies. Until then, just do the best you can.

Dean looks over at the band. They're slouched at various angles around a big booth in the corner, taking turns along with three or four girls snorting lines of something off the table, not even trying to hide it. It explains a lot of their behavior over the last couple of days, Dean thinks. He nods toward them and looks at Joe.

Joe rolls his eyes.

"I know. They're not too bad when we stay busy, on the road, but this shit…" Joe says, shrugging.

"Just the band, right? I don't see the crew doing anything stronger than a little weed now and then," Dean comments.

"Some roadies are into the harder stuff," Joe allows. "I discourage it amongst my guys, but it happens. The band does it because they have too much money and too much time. Roadies don't usually have a whole lot of either. No, with the crew, it usually starts with trying to stay awake on the night drives and escalates from there. That's one reason I was happy when you took over the driving responsibility."

Most of the road crew is in the bar, too, but that's mainly because it's nearly midnight and their hotel is nearby and they have nowhere else to be. Joe and Dean are the ones who are working here. They've taken up a more or less strategic position off to one side of the room where they can see everything that goes down.

And something is about to go down. Dean can feel it.

Dean scans the room restlessly, trying to pinpoint the source of his tension. The band's table is fairly quiet; they were mostly drunk when they started on the blow and they haven't slowed down at all. In fact, River looks like he's on the verge of passing out and Linc doesn't seem like he's that far behind. Then it hits Dean.

"Joe, where's Rick?" Dean asks, searching the room.

"What?" Joe looks at the band again and swears viciously when he doesn't locate Rick in among them.

Dean's partway out of his chair when he hears the pulsating bass rumble of a big motorcycle engine from somewhere just outside the open door of the bar. Screaming breaks out from that vicinity and people scatter like bowling pins.

Correction: the bike is _inside_ the bar.

And Dean prides himself on his quick reflexes, but it does take him an extra second or two to react when Rick cranks the throttle and the big bike roars to the middle of the dance floor. Indoor motocross is not something Dean deals with that often, okay…so cut him some slack.

Rick seems to be trying to do donuts in the middle of the bar, judging from the way he has the handlebars cranked around, but maybe that's just the only position he's capable of maintaining in his fucked-up state. Either way, he makes it through about a round and a half before he dumps the bike.

Momentum and residual engine torque take the motorcycle through a couple more pretty forceful rotations. Tables are flying, glass is breaking, and there's a lot of screaming and all-around chaos. Dean entertains a second or two of hope that the out-of-control bike will run over the sorry motherfucker and finish the job, but Rick's luck is better than Dean's, as usual, and he manages to curl up and roll out of the way. _Just like a cockroach_.

After the first wave of screaming dies down, Rick obviously is fine, but it still seems like he got the worst of the whole incident, so Dean raises his voice so he can be heard around the room.

"Okay, show's over, everybody's fine. Just go back to…whatever," Dean trails off lamely.

Once he's reassured everyone how fucking fine they actually are, a few of them seem to snap out of their shocked state and start pulling themselves together. Dean reaches down, hauls Rick up by his collar and looks around for Joe, intending to ask him for disposal instructions.

Suddenly there's an earsplitting screech from behind Dean and something clamps down on the back of his right thigh. He lets out a roar of pain and lets go of Rick. He twists around to see a girl with short black hair in a leather miniskirt latched onto his leg and biting him with all her strength.

"Fucking hell…get off me! Shit!" Dean yells and tries to pull his leg away.

The bar had gone quiet, but it's as if all the screaming lit a fast-burning fuse. River and Linc exchange looks and the bomb goes off—without a word they both start grabbing and pounding on whoever gets in their way. The rest of the band and most of the crew join the fray, and the bar explodes into an all out brawl.

Dean's got no attention to spare for anyone or anything beyond the sharp little monkey teeth still digging into his leg. He tries to pry the girl loose, then to shake her off.

_Jesus Christ, she's like a goddamned snapping turtle_, Dean thinks frantically, and he finally gives it up and backhands her across the face. It stuns her into letting go.

Dean rubs at his leg a couple of times as he assesses his position. He straightens up too quickly and almost gets clocked, but he weaves out of the way in time to shift his stance and deck the idiot. A hand grabs at his shoulder and he throws his weight behind a hard right cross without even looking at the face his fist smashes into.

The motion hurts his side, and Dean is suddenly really, really over this shit. He starts cutting a swath across the bar, swinging at everything in his way with both barrels. By the time he's out of breath the fight has mostly burned its way out.

He reaches the wall near the door and leans back against it, panting. Most bar fights are pretty short-lived—drunks don't have the best stamina in the world, not to mention balance. There are still a few diehards punching and wrestling around, but he can see the band is pretty much done. They were way too wasted when the thing started and it's not like Dean has a high estimation of their probable worth in a fight even if they hadn't been. The remaining combatants give it up soon after, collapsing against the nearest supporting surface, exhausted and confused.

Dean rests for a couple of minutes, then locates Joe deep in conversation with a heavy-set guy Dean assumes is the bar's manager. Joe writes something down on a slip of paper and hands it over to the guy, then turns back toward the main room, looking at the mess tiredly. Dean looks at the broken glass, overturned furniture and tire-marked flooring, and he figures this must have been what Tony was talking about when he mentioned breaking even.

Joe trudges over to Dean's position, wiping blood off his mouth with the back of his hand. He slumps against the wall next to Dean and nods at the wreckage.

"_That_ is the problem with a six-day break."

**

The load-in in St. Joseph, Missouri is subdued, most of the crew still sporting some kind of souvenir from the fight, wearing their black eyes and split lips like merit badges for idiocy. Dean's injuries, old and new, have stiffened up some and he's trying to keep moving by helping with the sound setup.

He's on his way to the main sound truck to grab Bear a couple of speaker cones when he hears a woman's voice. He pokes his head around the corner of the truck to see.

The girl is backed up against the bobtail they use to haul most of the band's instruments, and Michael's there too, holding her with his hands on her shoulders.

"I had to see you," she purrs.

"Oh God, Sherri, yeah, I want to see you, too…of course I do, but…shit, I've got to go. They're going to be wanting me for sound check really soon. Can you…"

Dean's a little surprised to see that Michael wasn't exaggerating too much about her looks; she is _very_ hot, about eighteen or so, and even in a plain t-shirt and shorts Dean can tell she has a really nice body. She's smiling at Michael and he's obviously hooked, stuck there like a fly in a spider web.

"It's okay, baby," she says, running her finger down Michael's chest. "This is the truck where we…uh, you know…that night, right? I'll just wait for you here."

"Um, yeah…" Michael stutters, and she leans up to kiss him.

"I'll be here when you're done, okay?" she says when she pulls back.

Michael just starts nodding like a bobblehead on a dashboard, obviously having lost the ability to form words. She pats his chest and smiles, makes a "go on" motion with her head, and he does, turning back to look like he's afraid she'll disappear, like she was a hallucination or something.

Dean totally doesn't blame him for thinking that, because something here doesn't add up. He stays hidden and watches Sherri watching Michael leave.

She waits until Michael is out of eyeshot and turns quickly to the truck, opening the passenger door and leaning inside. Dean's pretty sure she's looking for something, mostly under the passenger seat. She searches and swears for a minute or two, then finally climbs up into the cab. Dean pads closer.

"Shit, shit, shit…where is it? No, no, no…it's got to be here…" she's perched on her knees on the seat while she rummages underneath, giving Dean a really incredible view of her ass from his position just outside the truck's open door.

"Lose something?" Dean asks mildly, when he's mostly done looking.

"Fuck!" she gasps and flails, falling off the seat and sprawling into the floorboard. Dean winces in sympathy when she smacks her elbow on the dashboard on the way down, but he doesn't move from where he's deliberately using his body to block at least one exit from the truck's cab.

From here he can see he was definitely right about one thing—this chick is way out of Michael's league. No wonder she played him so easy; the only question is what she's playing at. Her dark eyes are fixed on Dean and he can almost hear the gears turning as she tries to figure the best way to twist him around her finger.

"Maybe later," Dean says, faking a smile. "Right now I'm guessing you've got bigger things to worry about. Like what you're going to do about five thousand dollars' worth of blow that's suddenly disappeared."

"You have it," she says, and her eyes narrow. It's not a question.

"I didn't even know for sure that _you_ had it," Dean says, "…until just now."

"Who are you and why is this any of your business?" she asks.

"I'm Michael's friend and you're fucking him over. That makes it my business," Dean says.

As soon as Dean uses the word 'friend' it hits him hard, the way the simple truth spoken aloud sometimes does. He cares what happens to Mikey. Maybe it's that old Chinese thing where he keeps saving the guy's hide, so now he's responsible for him. Whatever, this girl has been nothing but bad news for both of them.

"I'm not…God!"

Sherri huffs in frustration and grabs the steering wheel, using it for leverage to clamber out of the floorboard. Dean moves back far enough for her to drop out of the cab and onto the pavement.

"I'm not 'fucking him over.' He wasn't supposed to be involved; he was just supposed to be my ride," Sherri says, frowning.

Dean just looks at her, unimpressed, and makes a twirling motion with one finger for her to keep talking.

"It's my brother Neal. He's such a prick…you have no idea," she says.

"We've met. And I have an idea," Dean says dryly.

"I just…I didn't plan it, you know? I met Mikey and he was so sweet and he kept talking about the tour and all the places he's been and I just wanted _out_, you know? Haven't you ever felt like that, like you'd rather be anywhere but where you are?" she asks, blinking earnestly up at Dean.

The corner of his mouth twitches and he exhales a bitter little laugh. He really hates it when things get ironic. It's like the cosmos just loves to fuck with him or something.

"So you decided Michael was your ticket out…why?" Dean asks, eyebrows raised.

Sherri's eyes go even wider and she starts gesturing with her hands as she explains, talking in a rush, like she can't get it all out fast enough.

"I work at the bowling alley and Michael came in that night and he was so sweet. He gave me a ride back to my house, which I would never have let him do, but it was Thursday and Neal always makes a…run…to Lincoln on Thursdays, so I wasn't expecting him back at all. He would have killed Michael," Sherri says and something unpleasant darkens her eyes for a second, a haunted look that Dean associates with some unpleasantly firsthand knowledge of death.

"After we, uh…afterward, we sat in the truck and talked and I said I had to go to the bathroom, but I went in the house and threw some of my stuff in a bag. I thought I'd talk Michael into taking me with him, you know?"

Dean's played enough poker—and scammed enough himself—to catch most liars out after about two sentences. This chick…Dean watches her face as she talks and he decides she's either a really good actress or she's telling the truth.

"So what made you decide to take some of Neal's…stuff…while you were at it?"

Sherri gets a dull, resigned look in her eyes then, and it drags at Dean harder than anything she's said so far.

"I knew if I left, I'd need money and there's only so many ways for a girl like me to make it out here. I figured Neal's the one made me miserable enough to leave, he might as well pay the price."

"Except all you did was sic him on Michael."

She frowns, and Dean's ninety percent sure she's as surprised as she seems.

"Neal's been here?"

She looks around quickly, almost panicked, like she expects Neal to jump out from behind the truck any second and Dean feels a couple more pieces of the girl's puzzle click into place. This Neal guy really is a dick.

"Not here, in Sioux City. Shaking Mikey down for his five grand."

"But…I…shit. Neal came back to the house that night before we could leave, before I got a chance to talk to Michael about taking me with him. I had to get out of the truck and stay there. Neal would have tracked us down and killed us both if I hadn't. As it was, he nearly…it doesn't matter," Sherri finishes, looking miserable.

"So, you stole a bunch of your brother's shit intending to sell it, and stashed it in this truck intending to ride off into the sunset with Mikey. That about cover it?" Dean says.

She takes in a deep breath and blows it out through her lips, nodding.

"I didn't think Neal would track Michael down, though. He's such a sweet guy, you know? I never wanted him to get hurt."

If even half of what Dean's now thinking of Neal is true, it's a pretty gutsy move on her part, taking off like that, but still.

"You should have left the dope where it was, then. That shit always gets somebody hurt. Or dead," Dean says, then almost wishes he hasn't. The look in her eyes is telling him she probably knows a lot more about that effect than anyone should.

"Which brings us back to where we started," she says. "Where is it?"

Dean shakes his head.

"I don't have that shit. I told you; I didn't know it was here until fifteen minutes ago. Where did you even put it in the first place?"

"Under the seat," she mumbles, her eyes wandering away from Dean's.

"Well, genius move, there. This is a rock tour and these guys spend half their lives in these trucks. Some roadie probably found your little stash the day after you put it there. Probably thought it was Christmas and his birthday all rolled up into one, too."

_And maybe made a little money on the side, selling it. Like to the band_, Dean thinks, remembering the scene at the bar.

"I told you…" Sherri starts.

"I know, I know…you didn't plan it," Dean says, holding up his hand to cut her off. He gives her a probing look and tries to think what to do.

"Neal isn't going to stop until he's got his money—or taken it out of Mikey's hide," Dean says.

"I know. He's a monster, " she says quietly.

And of course Dean doesn't tell her killing monsters is his job, but he thinks it. Thinks about how easy it would be for him to track this guy down and kill him if he were some sort of supernatural threat. If he had his car, he might do it anyway—drive out to Council Bluffs and put an end to this worthless piece of shit himself.

He glances at Sherri and he's expecting her to start crying at this point, honestly, but she doesn't. Maybe if she had, things would have gone a different way—Dean would have resented being manipulated, disliked her more—but as it is, Sherri is looking at him with a certain wary trust, like she's got him pegged as somebody who'll help her instead of trying to hurt her. And maybe Sherri is pretty good at reading people, because Dean finally sighs and pulls out his wallet. He separates out a few small bills, hands her the rest of the money, and just waits.

She hesitates for about three seconds before she takes the money, but then she looks him in the eye.

"Don't tell Michael," she says.

Dean answers with a bitter little exhale and just shakes his head.

"Take care of him?" she asks, staring at him with her big wet doe eyes.

"I'll look out for him," Dean says.

He watches her walk away without looking back and then he stands there a few minutes more. Dean sighs and shakes his head. If Neal had been his type of monster, it would have been a lot simpler.

_People, man… why do they always have to complicate everything? _

Whatever. He turns on his heel and walks to the arena. It's almost show time and he's got work to do.

**

The band is off its game. Dean wouldn't have thought he'd been paying enough attention to tell the difference, but the depressed mood bleeds over into the music and it's obvious from the sound and the general atmosphere in the arena that nobody's putting as much into the performance as they normally do.

Dean's heard this same show dozens of times now, seen the spotlights move and change color the same way every time, and when the lighting shifts slightly, he feels the change instantly. He looks up at the lighting grid just as the crowd gives a collective gasp. The truss creaks loud enough to be heard over the music and sparks shower down onto the stage, triggering screams from the audience. A violent screeching sound of something metal giving way ends the music, and half the grid starts to sag downward.

Dean's already moving toward the crowd on the floor, but they're shrinking back from the falling truss anyway. Dean realizes that's not entirely a good thing; someone's going to get crushed in the backward press.

Dean stands there undecided for a second, but there's not a damned thing he can do to help the crowd, so he turns to the stage instead, takes a running start and jumps, shoving equipment out of the way and trying to locate the personnel.

River has already vacated, smartest one of the bunch as usual, Dean thinks, but Linc is still sitting behind his drums staring open-mouthed at the collapsing grid. Dean gives a quick glance upward, and it's not coming down fast, but it is fucking coming down.

Dean grabs Linc by the shirt and hauls him bodily down the steps at the side of the stage, shoving him hard to get him out of the drop zone. He looks around for Joe and spots him just off the stage right, with Rick in tow.

That just leaves the crowd and _fuck_, where are the house lights? The dragging squeal of tearing metal is still clawing at Dean's ears, each piece of the rig that falls pulling another behind it, leg bone connected to the thighbone, world without end. It probably only takes a minute or two but it seems a lot longer before the metallic horror show ends and the screams of the crowd begin to seem loud again. _Then_ the house lights come up. Dean swears.

"Ladies and gentleman, please…"

It must be the arena's PA system and Dean's got no idea who's using it; he just hopes they can keep anyone from getting crushed in the evacuation.

"Please, ladies and gentleman, you're in no danger. Please leave the arena in an orderly fashion…"

"Fucking Christ!" Dean growls, as he looks up into the seating area. "Orderly" was never an option and people are already down. He has the urge to scream at them, tell them to stop running, the danger's over, like that would do any good. He finally has to look away.

He turns and jogs across the floor to Joe, keeping an eye out for falling debris. The members of the band are nowhere to be seen; Dean assumes Tony or somebody herded them off to safety first thing.

Joe is taking a head count of the crew over by one of the arena floor entrances. Dean makes a quick and dirty count of his own and comes up short. A horrible thought hits him then and he turns and sprints back to the left side of the stage.

Michael's crap is all still there, fairly untouched, but Michael isn't. Dean scans the arena floor, but he doesn't see any sign of the kid. He heads back to where he last saw Joe and meets Joe halfway there. He's evidently had the same thought as Dean.

"Where's Mikey?" Joe asks, voice laced with panic.

"Not at the stage," Dean says firmly. _Or under it,_ he doesn't say. But where?

There are only two main floor exits and Dean points to one.

"Check the loading dock!"

Dean runs toward the other opening. It's kind of a tunnel under the seating and it's not all that well lit. He might have missed them completely if the branch from the locker rooms hadn't funneled the voices straight to him.

"You little shit, I've been chasing you over Hell's half acre for _weeks_ now!"

"I don't…don't have your stuff," Michael stammers.

"What'd you do? Sell it? You're gonna give me the fucking money you got for it right the fuck now!"

Dean creeps down the curving hallway and spots them. Neal's rabid with anger, spit flying every time he speaks.

"No…no," Michael says.

Neal's got one hand balled up in the front of Michael's shirt and he draws his other fist back. The situation isn't going to get any better unless Dean does something. His options are pretty limited, so he takes a running start and just hits the big prick with a flying tackle. Neal hears Dean coming and turns but it can't save him and Dean takes him down. He hits the concrete floor with a heavy smack, Dean's weight knocking the air out of him with a whoosh.

Neal's had some time to work up a head of steam and the fall doesn't slow him down much. He manages to arch his body up sharply enough under Dean to throw him off. Dean staggers back against the wall. Dean's ready for him by the time he gets up, but Neal reaches behind his back and pulls a .357 magnum out of his waistband.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but I'm getting pretty fucking sick of finding you up in my business every time I turn around," Neal says.

"Yeah, I can see how it would be pretty inconvenient, having to fight somebody your own size every time you're expecting to beat the hell of some scrawny-ass kid," Dean answers automatically, but the gun pretty much has his full attention.

Neal curls his lip and walks closer, gun still aimed squarely at Dean's chest, now at what is commonly referred to as "point blank range."

"Think you're funny. Let's see how funny you are with your insides splattered all over this wall."

"Probably not nearly as funny as that," Dean says, nodding at something over Neal's left shoulder.

"Right…" Neal begins, smirking, but he's cut off by the solid whump of a two by four making abrupt contact with his head.

Neal makes an "uh" sound and drops to the floor.

"Nice shot, Mikey," Dean says, mainly to cover his enormous sigh of relief. Michael is looking at him with round eyes and Dean claps him on the shoulder, waiting for him to correct the nickname. Dean sees the intent in his eyes for a second, but he seems to change his mind.

"Thanks, bro."

Dean kicks the gun away from Neal's limp hand, then winces and rubs at his right side.

"If you broke my rib again, you sorry son of a bitch…" but he's interrupted by the ring of his phone. It's an unknown number.

"Mr. Winchester?"

"Yeah," Dean answers hoarsely, already knowing it's nothing good.

"I'm calling from Gila Regional Medical Center in Silver City, New Mexico. We have a John Winchester here, and you're listed as his emergency contact…"

"What's wrong? How is he?"

"Calm down, sir. He's going to be fine, but he's sustained some pretty serious injuries. You should really come…"

Dean closes his eyes briefly at the wash of relief.

"I'm on my way," he says simply and hangs up.

He meets Michael's questioning look.

"Not another dead dog, I hope," Michael says, with a flicker of an uncertain smile.

Dean laughs a little in spite of himself, shaking his head.

"No," Dean says.

"But you're leaving," Michael says. It's not really a question.

"Yeah. My Dad's in the hospital."

"You can always come back to the tour after he's better?" Michael says.

It soaks in then, that he's leaving here as fast as he can get a ride out and Dean's shocked at himself, that he's going to miss being here. It occurs to him for the first time that he hasn't really even thought much about hunting while he's been working this gig. He's actually gotten attached to this freakshow in just a few weeks, and he knows better than that. _What a long, strange trip it's been,_ _for sure_.

Then he realizes that Michael's still looking at him hopefully and Dean finally just shakes his head. His tour is over.

**

Michael watches the dotted white lines roll under the truck, ticking off the minutes to Council Bluffs. Dean wanted to take the bus, but Joe wouldn't let him and Michael's glad. He's not really looking forward to saying goodbye. Judging from the scene when they left St. Joseph, Michael doesn't think Joe was either.

"_Hate to see you go, Dean, but...well, I hope your old man's okay," Joe said, handing Dean his final pay. And a little bit more besides, Michael was pretty sure. _

"_He'll be fine. Just a hunting accident," Dean answered, sticking out his right hand._

_Joe shook it and then used it to pull Dean in for a hug. Michael could see Dean's back stiffen for a second or two before he reached around with one hand and pounded Joe twice on the back. _

_Joe let him go and stepped back._

"_If you ever need anything…well, I still owe you one," Joe said, glancing in Michael's direction. _

_Dean just nodded and turned to Michael. _

"_Just keep him away from the pussy," Dean said._

"_Hey…"_

_Dean smirked._

"_Well, I guess as long as you keep a chunk of lumber handy, it might be safe for you to get a little now and then," he said, shoving Michael hard enough to make him stagger. He'd acted like he minded at the time, but he really didn't. _

Michael looks across the truck's cab. Dean's eyes are on the road, but he's not really looking at it. His mind is already about a hundred miles ahead of them.

"So do you think Neal really sabotaged that truss?" Michael says, even though he's already pretty sure he knows the answer.

Dean shrugs. "Your brother seemed to think so."

"What do you think?"

"I think if he didn't, then him being there was a pretty fucking big coincidence."

"Yeah. I guess the cops had enough warrants on him it didn't matter. Maybe he'll forget about me by the time they let him out," Michael says.

Dean gives a grunt that could mean whatever, then asks, "How many casualties?"

"They took four or five to the hospital, but I don't think any of them were too serious." Michael waits and when Dean doesn't say anything else, he remembers something he's been wanting to ask him.

"Hey Dean?"

"What?" he answers, letting his head flop against the seatback like he's annoyed.

"I've been meaning to ask you…what is that thing? Where'd you get it?" Michael asks, motioning to the amulet hanging around Dean's neck.

Dean's mouth tightens and he frowns slightly. For a minute Michael thinks he's not going to answer, but he finally says, "Somebody gave it to me a long time ago."

Then he slides down in the seat and slips on a pair of shades, folding his arms like he's going to sleep.

Michael gets the message and just drives for a while in silence. He doesn't think Dean's really sleeping, though, because hello…he's not stupid. Dean's body isn't relaxed enough and his breathing, well, he's just faking it; it's that simple.

And Michael gets it. He's been around Dean long enough to figure out that he's one of those guys who doesn't like to talk about himself, or his feelings, or anything that matters. And it's not that Dean doesn't care. Hell, he wouldn't be here if he didn't. No, Michael's pretty sure the reason Dean acts all hard is because he cares too much.

They pull up to the storage unit in Council Bluffs just as the sun's going down and Dean jumps out of the truck like he's got springs tied to his ass. He unlocks the door and goes in, runs his hand along the car's side like he's petting it, and Michael guesses maybe that's exactly what he's doing.

After a minute or so a small smile settles across his face and he looks back at Michael like he's forgotten he was there for a minute. Michael realizes this is his last chance.

"So, Dean…" he pauses and looks down at the toe of his boot, scuffs it across the concrete floor. "I never said thanks, you know…for saving my life and well…everything."

"I think you saved my ass that last time, Mikey," Dean says, smiling a little.

Michael chuckles a little. "I guess, but it was still my fault in the first place."

Dean's eyes flicker a little at that, but Michael doesn't know how to read it and he forgets it when Dean speaks.

"Well, Mikey, we both got places to be, so…I guess, just get some of that SWAG* for me," Dean says, hands in his pockets.

"Huh. If Joe ever lets me out of his sight long enough."

Dean smiles a little at that. "He worries about you. It ain't like you don't give him plenty of reason, dude. Besides, it's what us big brothers do."

It's a small slip, but Michael's not above taking advantage of it.

"You have a little brother, Dean? You never said."

Dean hesitates, then says, "Yeah. Well, not so little anymore, but he's younger."

Michael can tell Dean wants to leave then, can see how he gets kind of fidgety, so he asks, "Sure you can make it to the auto shop okay?"

"Oh yeah," Dean says, smiling at the Impala. "She'll get us there."

Michael waits until Dean has the car started anyway, waves at him as he shifts it into gear. Dean just smirks faintly in goodbye and drives off. And Michael's not stupid—Dean's not coming back to the tour after his dad gets better. Michael's pretty sure he'll never see Dean again.

As he gets back into the truck, Michael thinks about how Dean looked behind the wheel of the Impala—like he belongs there, almost a part of the car. It seems kind of big for one person, though, and Michael wonders about Dean's brother, wonders if he ever rides shotgun in that black monster. The picture feels so right to him that Michael thinks he probably does.

END


End file.
